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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826094">Fifty Two Fifty Four</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/slayer2003/pseuds/slayer2003'>slayer2003</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Queen's Gambit (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Beth is emotionally stunted, Character Study, F/M, Infidelity, Post-Canon, Something like love letters, correspondence chess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:28:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/slayer2003/pseuds/slayer2003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their games will always end in a draw.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>202</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Budapest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everybody. Hope you enjoy this fic which is:<br/>-not original<br/>-not exemplary of healthy relationships<br/>-completely self-indulgent<br/>-don’t be like Beth. Get you a nice boy next door like Harry Beltik.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">It began, arguably, six months after she had defeated him in Moscow, in Budapest.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">They had encountered each other in the final rounds of the tournament there, and maddeningly for Beth, she had lost two games and was about to lose a third. As he moved his rook into her kingline, surprise slowly registered on her face as she silently calculated the next few moves. He held her gaze for a long moment, the slightest hint of a satisfied smile at the corner of his mouth. She waited another long half minute before thrusting out her hand in concession and plastering on a false smile of her own.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Underneath the surface, frustration and self-doubt raged.She glanced around the room to raised eyebrows and surprised murmurings. Her face reddened. <em>Again</em>, she wanted to demand, like when Benny could still best her at speed chess. But there was no again, not today. Instead, she turned on her heel and left, fleeing back to her hotel room. He was her last challenge, her Everest, and it both terrified and excited her to lose to him again. Terrified because she feared the first time was only a fluke, but excited because it meant that <em>again</em> could come another day. What would she do when she was the best in the world, without equal? And, she would be lying if she said she did not enjoy spending those hours across from Borgov, hearing his almost inaudible sighs, the way he sipped his water or slipped a finger under his collar as if it were too tight when he felt threatened. These were the small intimacies that they shared being in such proximity for hours on end.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He was attractive as older men went, that much was clear. She had never really entertained the thought as more than a fantasy; he was, after all, married, and so shrouded in the mystique of his KGB handlers, only ever appearing for the most essential of functions and disappearing again promptly afterwards. Still, sometimes she imagined worming her way under his impeccable suit jacket, running her hands down his lean chest, lower, lower until his ironclad composure started to bend -</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Much later, he found her staring into the depths of a seltzer water and lemon and the hotel bar, seemingly deflated. It was late, with only a few sleepy looking patrons - an odd mix of well-dressed foreign dignitaries and noticeably sloppier mid-tier chess players to witness her misery.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“May I join you?” he asked, getting her attention by laying his hand gently on her elbow.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She stiffened as she turned to look at him, almost startled. Then she let out a short laugh, as in disbelief. He quirked a confused eyebrow.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” she said, regaining her composure. “I’m just surprised to see you here… like this. You’re usually with…” she paused, as if she were about to say “your handlers” or “your family”, but settled for “your people”.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He smiled impassively. “Yes, my entourage is in bed. I thought I would sneak out for a drink.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She still looked surprised, but gestured for him to sit. He settled into the bar stool next to her and waved over the bartender. Then he glanced at her seltzer and second-guessed himself. “Would you mind if I…” he trailed off.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It’s fine. I’m already sitting in a bar. Can't get much more masochistic,” she said darkly, throwing back the rest of her drink like it was a shot.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He gave a short nod and asked for a glass of Hungarian <em>pálinka</em>, the local fruit brandy, and a cup of tea for her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No vodka?” she teased.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“When in Rome…” he returned.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">For a moment they sat awkwardly sipping their drinks, neither quite knowing what to say. Borgov was not quite sure why he had approached her in the first place. It would have been easy enough to sit across the room and assume the rigid posture and serious expression that seemed to keep most people away. It was a natural curiosity, he supposed, to want to learn more about this woman who was the only real rival he’d had in years. They would be seeing each other quite often from now on, after all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You played very well today,” he offered.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Not well enough,” she said, naked disappointment in her voice. She looked up at him for the first time, eyes slightly red and glassy, from fatigue or because she had been crying, he wasn’t sure. He held her gaze for a beat longer than ever before. Even when they were playing, they only glanced at each other. It wouldn’t be appropriate to unnerve one’s opponent by staring. Instead he had spent a long time looking at her hands, the way her fingers and primly lacquered nails closed over each piece, sometimes tentatively, and sometimes with quick resolve. Sometimes he focused only on the chess board but took in the rest of her form in his peripheral vision, seeing only the blurred curve of her red hair and the gentle movement of her breath.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You’re getting better every day,” he told her gently. “Soon you will be able to defeat me easily. You have done it before. You can do it again,”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Maybe,” she said wistfully.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I will help you practice,” he told her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked surprised. “Why would you do that?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It would benefit me as well,” he said, as if it were obvious.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Of course,” she conceded.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">For a moment they were silent and Borgov wondered if his promise of practice was a step too far. It would be quite irregular for rival teams to practice together in such a way, despite the benefits for them both.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What did you think of Luchenko’s manoeuvre against Wilmington today?” he asked, defaulting back to easier conversation, trying to put her more at ease.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She raised an eyebrow, intellectual curiosity piqued. “I thought it was rather aggressive,”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Just like you, then,” he said. He meant it to be teasing, but it came out with more seriousness than he intended. She gave him an odd look, unsure if it was a compliment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They spoke a little while longer in a slightly stilted mix of English and Russian, chalking up the awkwardness and small misunderstandings to their lack of a common tongue. Borgov was a better English speaker than she was a Russian one, though he lapsed back into Russian when he couldn't find the right word. Beth used a few phrases in Russian she knew were correct, though she seemed loathe to take more risks in front of him. He ordered another <em>pálinka</em> and shucked his jacket as the strong spirit seeped slowly into his veins, both relaxing and emboldening him. They spoke mostly of their games, picking out junctures where they thought the other had some different plan in mind, analyzing counterfactuals. He found he enjoyed her strange mix of directness and reserve, a cat and mouse game of her thoughts and feelings, sometimes laid bare, and sometimes locked away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He had never seriously entertained thoughts of being unfaithful to his wife. They had been together for fifteen years and their life together was comfortable, quotidian. She looked after their son and did not complain that he was away too often or that he shut himself up in his study to read and practice for hours on end. If she was uncomfortable with the development that was Elizabeth Harmon, she did not say so. She was of a generation of women who had been taught to look the other way; that her feigned ignorance of his dalliance was the price for the relatively comfortable life they led. He suppressed a pang of guilt at the thought and reminded himself that nothing had happened.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Yet</em>, said a smaller voice in the back of his mind. He suppressed that voice as well.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Beth stretched languidly and peeked down at her watch. It was almost 2 am. “I should go to bed,” she said, apologetically. “My flight home is early in the morning. I guess that practice will have to wait until next time.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Of course,” he said. “I should probably be getting to sleep also. I’m sorry to have kept you up. I will see you in Marseilles?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No, don’t be…” she replied, tripping over her words “sorry, I mean, Yes, I will be in Marseille.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He only smiled, pleased. “We will have ample opportunity then. On which floor is your room?” he asked.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Seventh,” she supplied. “Yours?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Mine as well. I think many of the players are in the same block of rooms.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She nodded and slipped her coat over her shoulders. He offered her his arm, and she took it, and they strode to the elevator. They rode up in silence, his heart pounding uncharacteristically quickly in his chest. He longed to unwrap the enigma of the girl who had cried in front of him in Paris, the woman who had finally, stunningly defeated him in Moscow, and with whom he now battled for supremacy.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“This is me,” she said, stopping in front of a door just a few metres from the elevator. He stopped with her, and they were again silent.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He wanted there to be more to say, a reason to stay in her orbit. In the end all he said was “It was nice to speak with you, Miss Harmon,” and offered a handshake which must have seemed odd and stiffly formal given their newfound rapport.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She took his hand. “You as well, Mr. Borgov,” she returned. He was about to correct her, ask her to call him by his given name, but she leaned in to touch her cheek to his in the European way, his hand still clasped in hers, one side and then the other. He breathed in her perfume, light and floral, and something more that was uniquely her and his breath caught in his throat.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Goodnight,” he managed, squeezing her hand once more. She smiled and reached behind her for the door handle and slipped away into her room.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The next morning Beth awoke feeling oddly giddy. Usually she was a bit of a terror in the morning, dragging herself around wild-eyed until she’d had at least her first cup of coffee and cigarette in her. But this morning she woke up before her wake up call and set to meticulously folding her clothes into her suitcase so they wouldn’t be rumpled when she got home. When the phone did ring she ordered some coffee and some toast and slipped out of her clothes to go shower. As she padded towards the bathroom she noticed an envelope had been slid under the hotel room door. It was addressed only to “Miss Harmon” in hasty, left-leaning cursive script.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dear Miss Harmon,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I am glad that we had the opportunity to learn a little of each other last night. I am afraid we may not have much opportunity for the practice that I promised, so I wondered if I might interest you in a game of correspondence chess instead. It may take some time given the rate at which we both travel, but I promise I will see the game through.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>As you can well understand it would not be looked upon favourably to be receiving mail with coded messages from America. Thus, I enclose the address of my private postal box in Moscow. Please do me the favour of not addressing me by name or signing yours when you write, just in case.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I propose that we use correspondence chess notation rather than the regular algebraic; I find it helps avoid confusion. I hope you’ll forgive me for helping myself to white; I find playing against you these days that I need all the help I can get.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Yours,</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Vasily Borgov</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>1. 5242</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">5254. Pawn to e4, in other words. Beth reread the letter excitedly two more times, face flushed at the compliment in the last line, the <em>yours</em> in the sign off. It was just correspondence chess, she reminded herself, with the necessary precautions to avoid antagonizing their governments. But it felt illicit all the same. She resisted the temptation of penning an immediate reply and slipping it back under his door. Clearly, he expected her reply in his postal box, the game made more delicious by the anticipation. Instead, she folded the letter back into the envelope and slipped it carefully into her purse.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">In the shower, Beth's skin thrummed with excitement. As she massaged the shampoo into her hair she let her eyes flutter closed and sighed contentedly, letting her hands drift lower, her fingertips ghosting over her neck and breasts until one hand slipped between her legs. She came with a quiet moan soon after to the memory of Borgov's intense stare and the triumphant, almost cruel tilt of his mouth as he watched her realize her defeat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lexington</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ve taken the liberty of giving Townes the first name of “David” since, IIRC, he is never referred to as anything other than Townes in the show. Please do feel free to correct me if I’m wrong!</p><p>Also, this story is, as they often do, becoming something other than what I originally imagined. So the summary is probably not entirely apt, but I haven't thought of a better one yet. So, sorry - and thanks for your positive response to the first chapter. I promise they will encounter each other in the next one!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">On the plane back home, Beth pulled out a notepad and her favourite fountain pen, a vintage gold and burgundy Parker, and tried to draft her letter. First she wrote <em>4745</em> and underlined it several times. Scandinavian defence.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dear Mr. Borgov,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It sounded too formal, or like she was an adoring fan writing a letter, so she struck it out.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strike> <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Mr. Borgov,</em> </span> </strike>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Vasily,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She blinked several times, thinking about him opening it and reading it. She mouthed his name quietly to herself in her fortunately empty row on the plane. It seemed too intimate, too presumptuous for a man with such an imposing air around him. A name only his mother would call him. Or a lover.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Mr. Borgov</em>, she started again. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to address him at all, so she ripped out the page and started a new one. It felt odd to be writing without greeting him by name. She thought of trying “my friend”, but that seemed too presumptuous as well. She couldn’t very well start with “My dear arch-nemesis”. Instead she started writing without a greeting.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>It would be my pleasure to play a game of correspondence chess with you. This will be my first time, and it’s quite exciting. I had to brush up on my correspondence chess notation.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She tapped her pen against the side of her tray table in annoyance. The words were not coming. What to say? Should she say anything at all? Perhaps his note had merely been the overture and he was expecting only a straightforward letter with just her move enclosed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Unbidden, her pen kept moving in a stream of consciousness. She allowed it on the assumption that this was just something to do to fill her time on the trip and she wouldn’t send this draft.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>When I get home to Lexington I’m planning on having my friend Jolene and her boyfriend over for dinner. Jolene and I grew up in the orphanage together, and we recently reconnected. I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid, so I’ll probably just make spaghetti. My adoptive mother, Alma, was fond of jello salads, so I know how to make those, but honestly, I wouldn’t inflict them on anyone else now.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>What do you do in Moscow between tournaments? In my head I imagine that you study all the time, but you must do other things too.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The words continued to flow. She asked him mundane questions about his life (carefully omitting mention of his family, leaving him to volunteer that information if he wished), and prattled on a little more about her own, like the visit to the local chess club she had been roped into, or how all the flowers in her garden were probably dead by now because she hadn’t thought to hire anyone to water them in the warm Kentucky summer while she was away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>This is all probably more than you want to hear about. If it is, I’m sorry. We can keep it to chess only, if you prefer.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Looking forward to seeing you again soon.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Beth yawned as she put down the pen, starting to feel the lull of the plane’s droning engines. She waited a few moments so the ink wouldn’t smudge and then closed her notebook, figuring she would have to write a more polished version of the letter when she got home. Then she pulled her silk eye mask and her earplugs out of her purse and drifted off to sleep.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Back in Lexington, Beth woke up late the next morning, still feeling jetlagged and tired from her trip. She rolled out of bed, donned a robe, lit a cigarette, and unceremoniously thumped down the stairs to the kitchen. She opened the fridge in the vain hope of some breakfast, but all she found was a carton of sour milk and a jar of pickles.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She sighed, smokey exhalation billowing around her, and resigned her day to the menial domestic tasks of grocery shopping and running errands.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">After getting showered and dressed, she set off the few short blocks to the store, squinting behind her sunglasses and still generally feeling unprepared for the light of day. Children screeched and pushed each other through sprinklers as she walked, the air scented with freshly mowed grass. The scene was idyllic but she found herself missing the dim hotel bar in Budapest. Increasingly she was coming to terms with the fact that she was infatuated with Vasily Borgov. The realization was uncomfortable for many reasons, not least because he also seemed to have taken some interest in her. She wasn’t sure if it was romantic interest, or if she was just projecting her own feelings. If it was the former, well, he was supposed to be the adult in the room, to sidestep her advances and gently remind her that he had a family. It was just a little crush, she told herself, an infatuation like one would have for a professor whose intellectual prowess they respected. There was no harm in enjoying the feeling.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As she rounded the corner where the post office was, she paused, remembering the note she had written on the plane tucked into her bag. It was not the version she was supposed to send. She was going to sit down and write it on good stationary and say only what she wanted him to hear, to careful read and reread and edit out the words that said too much.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Instead, she pushed open the door and went up to the counter. “How long does it take to mail a letter to Russia?” she asked the clerk plainly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He gave her a queer look. “You have a commie penpal?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Correspondence chess,” she clarified, pursing her lips together in annoyance.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Sure,” the clerk said, still not quite convinced. “A few weeks, maybe a month.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’ll have an envelope and the postage, please,” she said, taking her notebook out of her purse. She ripped out the couple of pages that she had written and scribbled her return address (without her name) at the bottom of the page. She folded the pages carefully and inserted them in the envelope, feeling exhilarated and not allowing herself to think too much about the fact that she was impulsively sending these more intimate, unfiltered thoughts. She went about the rest of her day in a cheery mood and treated herself to an ice cream on the way home.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">After another week had gone by Beth started to check her mailbox. She knew it was premature, but she couldn’t help but look through the stack of bills and flyers with disappointment every day as she went by. She started re-reading Borgov’s book, this time less for the chess wisdom it contained and more any hints about who he was - his voice, the way he crafted his sentences. She knew that much of the nuance must have been lost in translation, but she did it anyway. His style was dry, as one would expect, but with hints of humour only detectable if you tilted your head and squinted.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Time trickled by slowly. Beth studied for the next tournament, cooked spaghetti dinner for Jolene and her boyfriend (it was more or less edible) and managed to coax some of her wilting flowers back to life. She resumed her Russian lessons at the community college for the summer semester. Finally, several weeks later, between her FIDE newsletter and a telephone bill, came his reply, in a sturdy cream envelope with corners slightly bent from the transit.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I was happy to receive your letter. I hope all is still well with you. How is your Russian coming along? Perhaps the next letter you send can be in Russian. I know you are not used to making mistakes, but this is how we learn. Of course we can discuss topics other than our chess games. In fact, to be honest, chess mostly bores me, and has for quite some time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I enjoy playing against you, of course, since you are a challenging opponent. But there is much more to discuss.</span></em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I hope your spaghetti turned out well. I had to ask my friends if anyone knew what the “jello” you mentioned is. Frankly, it sounds terrible. We have a similar dish in Russia, called kholodets. It is a kind of gelatinous meat dish made from boiling all of the leftover animal parts - pork legs, beef ears, and so on. It’s terrible. The sort of thing one’s grandmother grew up in eating in the village.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She grimaced at the description, kept reading. His letter was not as long as hers, and much more organized. He took her points in turn and carefully answered each of her questions. They were spending the summer at their dacha in the countryside, he liked to read French philosophy (<em>of course</em>, Beth thought, and rolled her eyes), did calisthenics and jogged to keep fit (she tried to imagine him doing this, but couldn't imagine him in anything other than a suit, which was quite comical). His tone was serious, but kind. Pleasure curled in the pit of her stomach as she consumed his words hungrily, wishing the back of the page was not blank. The letter ended with his next move (5445, pawn takes on d5) but without a sign-off, which made it feel at once unfinished, unsatisfying, but also full of the possibility of more to be said.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He had challenged her to write her next letter in Russian, so she would. She did the best with her grammar book and her dictionary, and then asked her Russian instructor a few hopefully inconspicuous questions about some colloquial expressions and sentence structures she wanted to try. It took her a week to perfect the letter.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Finally, enough time passed that it was time to start thinking about the next tournament, in France. It was late summer by that point, but still warm enough in the South of France to warrant packing her favourite sundresses and a few new additions. She felt relieved to not have to be accompanied by Mr. Booth or any other tail from the state department, though the same was unlikely to be true for Borgov. They did, however, call her, and give her a stern warning about fraternizing with the Soviet team and to call them directly if anyone should make any “overtures”. She rolled her eyes and answered curtly in the affirmative, slamming down the receiver with a huff. She was going to play chess, not to be a character in their spy thriller.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">On the day of her flight she again woke up uncharacteristically early and packed her bags. Townes, a reliable source of rides, had kindly agreed to take her to the airport in exchange for some updated photographs of the new Grandmaster for the paper ("Don't they have anything else to write about?" she had asked him, to which he had replied "No, not really").</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She was just dragging her suitcases out to the front step (she was terrible at packing light) as Townes pulled up. He rolled down the window and yelled “Your chauffeur has arrived!”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Beth laughed, happy to see him. “Well he’d better come help me with these bags, or else he’s not getting a tip!”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Townes popped the trunk and got out of the car, stooping to kiss her cheek as he took her luggage. “Nice to see you, Beth.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You too, Dave,” she replied. She settled into the front seat and put on her oversized sunglasses, a contented sigh escaping her. Townes revved the engine and they set off, quiet for a moment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Well, spill it,” Townes prodded.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Spill what?” she asked emphatically.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Who is he?” Townes asked again.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Beth pretended to be scandalized. “Why do you think there’s a guy?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You’re practically glowing,” he told her. “You hate travelling. Usually you complain all the way to the airport. This time you’re smiling ear to ear.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’ve been… corresponding with someone. Chess, and letters. It’s just friendly,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “He’ll be at the tournament. I guess I’m just looking forward to it.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying to appear unruffled.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Townes made a <em>hmm</em> noise, pondering. “Is it a player?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Obviously.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Is it Adamson?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“McCloskey?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Ew, no.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Is he American?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Are we playing twenty questions now?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“We wouldn’t be if you would just tell me who it was,” he told her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Beth smiled, both reluctant to tell him, but enjoying the game. “He’s not American.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Is he Soviet?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Warmer.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Sleeping with the enemy, huh,” he looked over at her, seemingly impressed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She flushed. “We’re not sleeping together.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“But you might at the tournament.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No, Dave, he’s older, and married. It’s just a little crush. We have chess in common and not much else.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Jesus, Beth, married?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">She shrugged.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Is it Luchenko?” he asked, half teasing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Not <em>that</em> old.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Townes thought for a moment. “Borgov?” he said seriously. Her immediate flush was all the confirmation that he needed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">"Wow, ok…just to be clear, I’m not judging you,” he said slowly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Kinda feels like you’re judging me,” she replied, not meeting his gaze.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m not. Look, I know what it’s like to be in an… unconventional relationship. Just be careful.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Ok, dad,” she teased, trying to reinsert levity into the conversation.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Townes reached over and squeezed her hand. “If I’m your dad, he’s definitely your grandpa,” he teased. They dissolved into giggles, the mood lightened. They bantered the rest of the way to their airport, where Townes got out to load her luggage onto a cart for her in front of the terminal building.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Be safe, Beth,” he said, now serious, and not meaning just the trip.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I will,” she assured him, and disappeared into the crowd.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Marseilles (I)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In this chapter we spin the wheel of random Russian names to give Borgov’s wife and son! It’s kind of funny trying to navigate the tropes of this pairing and remain semi-original.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Twelve hours later, Beth flopped facedown on her hotel room bed, exhausted. She could see the Marseilles Chanot out the window, the convention centre where the tournament would take place. There was an opening gala scheduled this evening for the players. Typically these days she skipped the galas, finding it painful to make smalltalk without the helpful influence of alcohol. She called down to the front desk for a wakeup call in half an hour and then fell into a dreamless sleep, not bothering to change out of her travel clothes. She woke up to the phone ringing, feeling disoriented as one does after a long nap in the day.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“<em>Bon après-midi, Mademoiselle Harmon. Vous aviez demandé un appel de réveil?”</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Her French was rudimentary, but she got the gist, and thanked them for calling. She got up and padded over to her window, a view of the coastline in the distance. She hoped that she would have the chance to make it to the beach, since there wasn’t much opportunity for that in land-locked Kentucky.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She set to unpacking, starting first with her outfit for the gala. It was a floor length, backless Pierre Cardin number, cut straight but with a somewhat Grecian looking cape tacked to just one shoulder. She had spent entirely too much money on it. She liked to dress well, that much was true, but typically she kept her tournament outfits somewhat demure to mitigate the ever-present of risk of being accused of wielding her sexuality in play. But she wasn’t playing tonight, and this dress was designed to turn heads. One head in particular.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It wasn’t that she had any conscious designs to seduce Vasily Borgov, but she wanted him to notice her, to feel the crackle of anticipation that pervaded their last meeting and their letters. Her thoughts never went further than the fantasy of falling into bed with him, never seriously considering what that would mean for them. But Beth was smart, and she had developed her career on the premise of being able to see several moves ahead, so if she was honest, her failure to imagine the consequences of such a dalliance was more avoidant than ignorant. As she had been doing for the last several months, she stuffed the dissonant feelings back into the depths where they belonged, and went to get ready.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He noticed her. Everyone noticed her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">There was not a single pair of eyes that did not at least surreptitiously glance in her direction when she arrived, a fashionably late twenty minutes after the start time, the bright silver of her dress standing out in a sea of men’s suits. She would have turned heads even if she wasn't already chess royalty. Borgov idly wondered whether her penchant for flair and an entrance was calculated or oblivious, since it was usually one or the other with her. She milled around the room, greeting other players and acquaintances. Not once did her eyes land on him, and he felt an inkling of ire that she was purposely ignoring him after months of intimate correspondence.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He had enjoyed their exchange of letters. He vacillated between guilt and taking pleasure in them without reserve. He had not told his wife, Yulia, that they were corresponding. He had justified it by telling himself that he had nothing to hide; there were merely friendly letters and some correspondence chess. Nevertheless, he read her letters alone in his study late at night and kept them in a locked drawer in his desk. But here at the tournament he had resolved to remain reserved, to be polite but not familiar with her, so as not to draw attention to them as anything more than friendly rivals, and to not betray his embarrassing infatuation. It was infuriatingly cliché to have his thoughts consumed by this woman half his age. It was the type of midlife crisis that he ridiculed others for having, mocking their self-destructive impulse to explode their perfectly respectable lives.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was increasingly obvious that she was attracted to him too, evident in the warmth of her letters and the way she had looked at him coquettishly and touched him more than was strictly necessary in Budapest. And her determination to ignore him at this moment, he was sure, was not motivated by the desire to keep their attraction inconspicuous. She was toying with him as one might toy with an opponent of lesser talent in chess, leading them into elaborate traps just to exercise one’s prowess. He decided that if she wanted to play that game, he would surely best her at it, as he had mastered his temper long ago.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He waited until she started towards the bar, and then excused himself from his conversation under the guise of getting a refill of scotch. He approached, a couple of metres away from her, still pretending to not have seen her. In his peripheral vision he could see her angling her body towards him, cocking her head a little to the side and trying to catch his eye. He continued to resolutely try to flag down the bartender at the opposite end of the bar. Finally, she shifted on her feet, and made a small huffing noise. “Vasily,” she called out, finally.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He turned, wearing a polite but vacant expression. “Miss Harmon,” he greeted her silkily. She searched his face for a hint of the familiarity that they shared in his letters, and looked disappointed to find none and for him to have responded so formally to her familiar address.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It’s nice to see you,” she said, cautiously, evidently unsure of where they stood.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You as well,” he returned impassively.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked at him hard for a moment, and then appeared to become resolute. “Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you when we play.” She turned away from him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Indeed,” he said, not even looking at her, collecting his drink from the bar. “Good evening Miss Harmon,” he bid her, and strode away, his elevated heart rate the only evidence of their interaction.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The next few days passed in the standard way as far as these tournaments went. It was his least favourite tournament style, the round robin, which meant that he had to play every single player in the tournament at least once. Typically this resulted in quite a few boring games with lesser players, but it also meant that he was guaranteed to play Beth. Their match was scheduled for this afternoon, and though it was not as high stakes as their elimination match in Moscow, it was sure to draw a large crowd. They had continued to resolutely avoid each other, and the longer they did, the sadder Vasily became, wondering if he should concede and approach her for fear of wasting their limited time together.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She swept into the ballroom right on time, clad in a well-fitting tweed skirt and a green blouse with a tie at the neck. They shook hands, as always, and he gestured for her to sit, looking at her, unblinking. She met his gaze for a moment, and then her attention snapped down to the board, and she was no longer a young woman with an infatuation but merely a vehicle for her intellect, moving pieces with machine-like precision. He was playing white, a small mercy. He snuck glances at her as they played, refreshing the memory of the features that he had only seen in his mind’s eye for months.</p><p class="p1">He beat her by the skin of his teeth in three hours and forty-eight moves, taking more satisfaction in the flash of anger and frustration in her eyes than he would like to admit, feeling the sense of exhilaration of defeating a worthy opponent that he had not felt for a long time as applause erupted around them. As they stood, hands clasped over the chess board, he assumed what he hoped looked outwardly like a conciliatory expression, and murmured into her ear, as if consoling her, “Practice, room 1314. Do not come before midnight.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She gave a small nod in turn and turned and left.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He went to dinner that night with the Soviet team, together enjoying the easy joie de vivre of the French summer, drinking and smoking copiously in a tiny bistro on the water. Girev and some of the other younger players raced each other across the sand in into the water, shucking their shirts along the way, hooting and splashing. He watched them and smiled fondly, missing his son. Maxim had just started school for the year and it didn’t make sense to bring him and Yulia along for just a few days in the middle of the week. He called them every night was regaled with tales of their day, swimming excursions at a nearby pond or make-believe rounds of Cowboys and Indians with his cousins at Yulia's parents' house.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">As they returned to the hotel he excused himself from the additional libations being distributed in Laev’s suite and returned to his own. He took out his travel chess board and set up the board to the move where she had made the mistake that cost her the afternoon's game. Then he settled into bed with a book, determined not to be disappointed if she failed to show up.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sometime around half past midnight there was a faint knock at the door. He leapt out of bed, running a hand through his hair and trying to fix a composure on his face that he did not feel. He opened the door, and there she was, hazel eyes looking up at him expectantly, her mouth glossy and red. He stepped aside so she could enter, saying nothing. He stood still as her eyes swept around the room, landing on the little board set up at the breakfast table with their game from earlier. “I thought you might like to fix your mistake,” he told her, not meaning to sound unkind but realizing as he heard it that it was.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yes,” she said, her voice clipped. “Sit down.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He did as he was told. She stared intently at the board for a moment, and then made a much better move than she had earlier. He nodded almost imperceptibly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and responded. They played on without speaking. This time the game ended in a draw, her remaining piece, the dark square bishop, impotent against his lonely king.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Better,” he told her. She still looked dissatisfied. “You know, it is hypothesized that two players who play perfectly will very often end up in a drawn position.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I know,” she said icily, and seemed disturbed by the thought that she might never consistently best him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">For a moment there was a staredown.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m tired of playing this game,” he told her finally, frustrated with her sour expression.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Which game?” She feigned ignorance.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“This game where we don’t acknowledge each other. I’m better at it than you, and I don't find it very amusing,” he told her in Russian.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Then stop ignoring me,” she replied, getting up. He stayed where he was as she rounded the table and invaded his space, looking down at him, so close he could feel her hair tickle the sides of his face.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Miss Harmon - “</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“And stop calling me that. You know my name.” Her hands settled on his shoulders.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You should go,” he told her, but it came out as more of a suggestion than a command.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” she whispered, expression softening, one hand to tentatively tracing her fingertips down the side of his face, the curve of his jaw.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“This is not going to end well,” he murmured, inhaling her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” she said again, this time in agreement.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Beth,” he uttered, finally feeling the shape of her name on his lips, forbidden until now in their letters and in life, and reached up to kiss her, one hand curving around her low back and pulling her into him. She stumbled as her legs buckled, one knee landing in his lap and the other astride him, making a breathy exhalation in his mouth as she landed. If she had any misgiving about what they were doing, it didn’t show, her soft mouth yielding to his, her fingers already working at the top buttons of his shirt. For every voice in his head that screamed not to, ten more replaced them, urging him to give in to the magnetic pull between their bodies.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They broke apart, foreheads touching, both breathing hard. This time it was her who said “I should go.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He said nothing, but nodded, eyes closed, afraid of what would happen if he looked at her right now, already craving her honeyed mouth again. He felt the gentle movement of air as she got up and heard the click of the door as she left. He finally opened his eyes to the empty room. It looked strangely static and orderly, no evidence of her presence other than the three pieces on the board and an echo of her perfume so faint he might only have been remembering it. Then he undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt and unzipped his pants, reaching in to free his aching cock. It didn’t take much for him to find release, spilling messily over his stomach. As his urgency receded, shame crept in.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Getting up to find a tissue, his eyes travelled to the telephone next to his bed. He should call Yulia, confess everything, and grovel for forgiveness.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Instead, he poured himself a drink and collapsed into bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Marseilles (II)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Choo choo - sexy times ahead. Thank you all for your kind comments. I hope you continue to enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Beth awoke the next morning feeling like she had a hangover. She hadn’t had a drop to drink, but she had slept in fits and starts, somewhere on a knife’s edge between exhilaration and anxiety.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She hadn’t intended for their little game of hard-to-get to get so out of hand. She <em>was</em> trying to bait him into approaching her at the gala, it was true. But his subsequent indifference infuriated her; it made her want to beat him like she wanted to beat him at chess. And then he beat her at chess too, and her frustration grew to despondence. It was helpful to rectify her mistake as they replayed their game, but ending in a draw was unsatisfying, a frustrating anticlimax. She knew that this was often what happened when Grandmasters played each other, but her rise had been so meteoric that she had hardly had the experience. She was experiencing the impulse, as gifted people do, to quit at the first roadblock, to fly back home to Kentucky and drink herself into oblivion and never look at a chess board again. Then he had whispered “Practice” into her ear, and she had to clench her fist to keep from visibly shivering at the sensation of his breath on the side of her neck, and knew she would do anything to avoid disappointing him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Alone in his suite, it was gratifying to see his frustration with her aloofness, to see some reaction, some emotion. Sometimes she felt like taking him by the shoulders and shaking him and demanding that he acknowledge her. She felt fear at that moment that he called her out on her game, worrying that she had pushed things too far, feeling momentarily self-conscious that he saw her as immature and acknowledging that maybe she was. But in a last desperate attempt, instead of retreating, she had gone all in, and the kiss, oh, the kiss -</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She knew he was married, that he had a young child. She had seen him interact with them on other occasions, like at the zoo in Mexico City. He seemed to be an attentive husband and father, always making sure his wife was comfortable at galas where she may not have many acquaintances. Intellectually, Beth knew that she should feel some guilt for her role in their affair. Was that what it was, she thought, an affair? The label seemed so pedestrian, too tawdry to describe their intense connection. Perhaps that was what all adulterers felt. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to stop, to give up the intoxicating rush, or to look further than tomorrow. Clearly her interest was reciprocated, and how he arranged the rest of his life was his business. There were plenty of other justifications (excuses) easily to hand: the state of his marriage was a mystery to her - it could be an unhappy one, or an arranged one; he was married and she was not, so the wrongdoing was his; they had only kissed, not fucked. And a thousand other reasons not to stop.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">There was one day left of the tournament. She and Borgov were neck and neck in points. Since he had beat her, if they both won all of their games, he would win the tournament. Neither of them were scheduled to play against anyone that they were likely to lose against, so she was treating her loss as a foregone conclusion. Tired of licking her wounds, she decided to make the most of the French summer and go down to the beach. She slathered herself in sunblock, knowing her fair skin wouldn’t last long in the Mediterranean sun, even now in the late afternoon.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">At the beach, she was grateful for the anonymity. She had gotten better at ignoring the brazen stares and whispers of the male world she found herself in, but it was still grating and incessant. She sprawled out on a towel she had taken from the hotel and stuffed into her weekend bag with her dogeared copy of Capablanca’s <em>Chess Fundamentals</em>. She felt at peace lying in the sand, listening to the waves and children running to and fro, existing comfortably in the liminal space of this foreign but pleasant environment, removed from her real life and real concerns. She tried to focus on the words and diagrams on the page, but her mind kept conjuring the feeling of his hand curling around her back, the brush of her hand against the skin at his throat as she undid his buttons…</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Miss Harmon!” an accented voice brought her out of her reverie. It was Georgi Girev, ambling towards her. He had grown out of his boyishness into a taller, lankier teenaged version of himself. She always enjoyed her games with him, and privately considered him to have the most potential of her younger opponents, though his endless questions about life in America could be a little overbearing at times.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She tried not to let the annoyance of being disturbed creep into her voice. “Hello Georgi,” she told him. “Going for a swim?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He beamed at her. “No, we are going to eat.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Beth turned and looked over her shoulder for the source of the “we”. More or less the entire Soviet team was following a few paces behind, looking strangely out of place in their long slacks and button up shirts, Borgov included. If he flinched when he spotted her, only she noticed, his face remaining impassive. She forced her eyes back to Georgi. “Dinner?” she asked, looking down at her watch. It was just shy of five.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“No,” he said politely, “lunch”. Someone in the Soviet delegation snickered and she heard a muttered “<em>Amerikanski…</em>” She ignored the slight. “Would you like to join us?” Girev asked.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly-“ she began lamely.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Nonsense,” said another voice. “Please, Miss Liza, join us. You should get out of the sun,” Luchenko finished in Russian, looking comically like a smiling Santa Claus on a beach vacation.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">It would have been rude to decline at that point, so she said “Alright,” somewhat weakly. Borgov continued to pretend to ignore her as she put on her coverup and gathered her things, shaking sand out of her towel. They ambled a few more metres to a seaside bistro. The Soviets evidently had a standing reservation and sat themselves at a long table, staff scurrying to bring an extra chair for her. Beth took her seat, somewhat stiffly, happy to be seated between Girev and Luchenko, who were both good social facilitators and easy company. Borgov sat across the table from her and one seat over, regarding her coolly.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Beth found herself genuinely enjoying the company, laughing good-naturedly along with everyone as she sucked down her first raw oysters, making a face. They rehashed some of the best (and worst) chess plays of the last few days, and she found herself trying out some more complex Russian phrases under the patient tutelage of Luchenko, who supplied her with the vocabulary she was missing. She and Borgov did not speak directly, though they took part in the same conversations. He seemed to relax as he became accustomed to her presence, and she even saw him crack a few small smiles at her attempts at jokes. A warm sense of satisfaction blossomed in the pit of her stomach as she realized that the Russians had accepted her into the fold. She didn’t care what it looked like from the outside, or whose tongues would be set a-wagging. She was only ever here to win, and nothing about that precluded making friends with her opponents.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Cigarettes were lit and cognac was passed around, and everyone relaxed into the lull of the late afternoon sun, the light paradoxically becoming more golden while its rays cooled for the evening. They settled up the bill and trundled back to the hotel, piled into Borgov’s suite, the largest, since being the star player granted one some privileges. For the umpteenth time, Beth was thrilled that Mr. Booth was not around to chastise her. More drinks were passed around, vodka this time. Beth found herself missing alcohol, though not for its mind-numbing properties but for its contribution to this easy culture of merry-making.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Eventually someone broke out a chess board and pushed it between her and Borgov. “You should have a rematch.” A chorus of agreement sounded around them. She raised an eyebrow at him, challenging him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He was silent for a moment, considering, and finally said, “It would be my pleasure to produce a repeat of yesterday,” taunting her. Hoots erupted, and she offered him her hand to shake. Uncharacteristically, he leant over and kissed it instead. She blushed, feeling her heart palpitate, knowing he had done it on purpose to unsettle her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Their game was a raucous one, both of them making more aggressive plays than they would in competition, testing out new little tricks. The room was loud, very unlike the hushed and carefully controlled tournament environment. Beth made an aggressive capture early on that won her material but exposed her king, and Borgov punished her for it by making her spend the better part of the game defensively on the back foot. But in the end, her material advantage was decisive, and he resigned once it was clear that she had two passed pawns to promote that he was powerless to stop. As he conceded, she pounded her fist on the table in a rather unsportsmanlike gesture, cheering along with the spectators. He smiled at her, a genuine smile like that first time she had defeated him in Moscow.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I knew you could do it,” he told her in Russian, pulling her in again for a hug, this one tighter, more intimate. She had to restrain herself from kissing him there and then.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She hadn’t realized the tension she had been carrying over the prospect of not being able to beat him again until she did. She felt her body relax, boneless from the sun and the victory. Slowly, the company began to disperse, and in an effort to not be the last one there with him, she excused herself as well and went back to her room, showering the salt off her skin and changing into a different dress. An hour later, she picked up the phone and dialled his room.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Hello?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Is everyone gone?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">A pause on the line. “Yes.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She bit her lip, daring herself. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Another pause. She readied herself for his rejection, but all he said was “Check the hallway first,” and then hung up.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She popped into the bathroom to smooth down her hair and apply some lipstick. Then, she did as she was told, checking that the hallway was empty. She took the stairs rather than the elevator, just in case.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The door to his room was unlocked, so she let herself in, quietly. The room was much as it was before, though he had moved the assortment of used glasses and ashtrays to the sideboard. He was sitting in a chair, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. He looked at her for a long moment, conflict evident in his features. “What are you doing here, Elizabeta?” he said her name in the Russian way. She smiled, liking the sound of it despite the rest of his body language.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She sat in a chair a few metres away. “I thought we could just talk.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Just talk?” he asked, part puzzled and part sceptical.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yes. Like we do in our letters. Tell each other things,” her hands fidgeted in her lap. She wanted to sleep with him, it was true, but more than anything she yearned for intimacy, to crack through the tough exterior to the man underneath. To solve the puzzle. To win the game.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Finally, he looked resigned. “What do you want to know?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Obvious questions first. “How did you learn to play chess?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“That is not a simple story.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Tell me,” she insisted.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I learned in prison when I was seventeen years old,” he told her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Her mouth fell open, but she tried to collect herself quickly. “Why - why were you in prison?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I tried to rob the wrong party officials home,” he said, as if recounting the tale of picking up his dry cleaning. She must have looked flabbergasted, not expecting such a loaded response to what she thought was a simple question. He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, starting to come free from his oppressive pomade. “My mother died when I was very young, so I was raised by my father. My father was not rich. He was a motorcycle repairman, and at times, a petty criminal. Like most men his age he was conscripted into the Red Army during the war when I was twelve years old. Things were very bad for conscripts at that time and he witnessed some things that… affected him. Eventually he deserted. By the time they caught him the war was over, so instead of sending him back to the front, they sent him to prison.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Beth leaned forward, engrossed in the story. It was the most she had ever heard him say at one time. He told the story in Russian, speaking more slowly than usual so she could follow.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“In prison his desertion was admired. The <em>vor v zakone</em> - the thieves in law, as they called themselves, pledged as part of their code to not assist the authorities in any way. Those who agreed to be conscripted in exchange for their freedom suffered retribution. After the war, I think my father no longer could function in the outside world. But there, with the <em>vory</em>, he found his place.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Where did you live while your father was away?” Beth asked.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I had no living relatives,” he told her, “At least, none sympathetic enough to my father to take me in. I went between the homes of my father’s acquaintances until I was a teenager. Sometimes, I was homeless. Sometimes I lived in a cramped flat with many other boys my age. I visited my father frequently in prison. I was fascinated by his new tattoos, symbols of the <em>Vory</em>. I was young and foolish and I wanted to be like him, and I got in trouble.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“That’s when you were sent to prison.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yes. That is when I learned to play chess. It was one of the few activities we were allowed when we were not doing labour. My cellmate had a small board and he taught me how to play. I quickly excelled, like you. The guards were just as bored as we were and they would sometimes make bets on the matches. If a guard bet on me and I won, I might win a favour or an extra ration. If I lost, well…” he trailed off. “Eventually, my skill did not go unnoticed. A guard named Fyodor took an interest in me - not because he cared for the game but because I could make him money. He convinced the warden to release me early on the condition that I would continue to play chess for him and give him a large portion of my winnings. I played in local tournaments, and I was eventually noticed by party officials much more important than Fyodor, and they became my patrons instead. They were quick to remind me that my life and my freedom depended on my success at the game. But I had something like a normal life. I was able to finish my studies, got an apartment of my own. But I was always on this leash. In some ways, I still am,” he finished quietly.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Beth felt her heart break for him. There was nothing that she could say to him that wouldn’t sound hollow, so she said nothing at all, instead standing to go to him. She brushed the stray hairs from his forehead, and he let her, looking more vulnerable than she had ever seen. “You’re an orphan, like me,” she said softly, recalling the conversation she had overhead in the elevator many months ago. <em>Losing is not an option for her. Otherwise, what would her life be?</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He nodded, and she bent to kiss him, this time softly. He kissed her back, one hand cradling the side of her face. This time he stood, and she relished the feeling of being dwarfed by him, her head tilting back as he pressed his body against hers. Then his mouth dipped down the side of her throat, making her shiver as his five o’clock shadow scratched at the sensitive skin of her neck. His fingers found the strap of her sundress, nudging it to the side so he could place soft, open-mouthed kisses to the top of her shoulder. She sighed against him, and unbidden, a breathy “Vasya…” slipped from her lips, echoing the familiar name the other Soviet players seemed to call him. He seemed unperturbed by her use of such an intimate nickname, continuing his mouth's mission over her clavicle.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">His fingers snaked around her back and found the zipper of her dress, undoing it slowly, giving her a chance to stop him if she wished. She entertained no such thoughts. Finally, the dress slid from her body, leaving her only in her bra and a satin slip. His eyes raked openly over her body, making her blush. She reached back and undid the clasp of her bra as well, shivering suddenly in the cool air of the room. Then he sank to his knees before her and took a nipple in his mouth, a handful of her other breast in one hand and her ass in the other. She mewled in delight, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The hand that was exploring her backside slid downwards, caressing her inner thigh and down to the back of her knee. She thrust out a hand to steady herself on his shoulder, and he seemed to become aware that staying upright was increasingly become a challenge for her. “Come to bed,” she told him, and put out her hand so that he could stand. His fingers twined with hers. It was the first time that their hands had joined in any context other than competition, and she felt a rush of emotion at the sight. He seemed to feel it too, allowing her to lead him to the bed. They sat together at the edge, and Beth peered up at him, suddenly feeling the injustice of him still being fully clothed. She set to undoing the buttons of his shirt, and this time managed to get each one.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">As she pushed the fabric back over his shoulders, she caught sight of the faded, but ornate crucifix tattooed on his sternum. She reached out to touch it, softly. “From prison?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He nodded. “A mark of my regrets.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">They kissed again, this time more urgently, and he pushed her down into the pillows, crawling over her body to kiss down her chest and stomach. She reached down for his belt buckle but he caught her hand, gently, and told her “No,” setting himself back to the task of worshipping her body. She made a noise of protest, but didn't pursue it. When he reached her waistband, he looked up at her, seeking permission. She nodded gently, and he hooked his fingers into the elastic and pulled down her slip and panties in one movement. She blushed, suddenly feeling insecure in her nakedness. “You are exquisite,” he told her, voice low and gravelly, and it was the only compliment that he would ever pay her body. The only one she would ever need.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">His kisses continued further south until he came to the apex of her thighs, inhaling her through her sparse tufts of red pubic hair, looking ready to -</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">“Oh - !” was all she was able to manage. She had never been with a man who had done this to her - <em>for </em>her. The sensation overwhelmed everything else, and the only thing should could still process was the image of his hand wrapped tightly around her hip, holding her down while he feasted. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, spiralling higher and higher until she came with a shout so loud that he had to disengage and reach up and clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, his fingers still gently drawing out her orgasm. He pulled himself up, resting his forehead on hers as their chests both heaved with exertion, unable to look away from each other.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Marseilles (III) / Moscow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some angst here, sorry folks. A bit shorter as well, but it was heavy and took some time for me to write.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">He knew what they were doing was wrong, but at that moment he didn’t care. She looked so perfect just then, sprawled out beneath him, coming down from the high of her orgasm. The flush on her face had spread to her chest and her hair fanned messily out on the pillow. Her doe eyes with their fashionable winged liner, now smudged, looking up at him, pupils wide. His eyes traced down the gentle curve of her neck to her full breasts with their rosy peaks, still rising and falling with the exertions of her breath. He marvelled at her, this young woman who had come along and shaken him out of the pleasant stupor that was his life.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Again, she reached down for his zipper, this time brushing her hand over his clothed erection. A constricted breath issued from the back of his throat, his hips arching unbidden into her touch. Despite his want, he caught her hand and gently brought it to his mouth to kiss the inside of her palm. “It’s alright,” he assured her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“But, I want to,” she told him, looking confused, and slightly hurt. “Don’t you want me to?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Of course I do,” he told her plainly. “But it's not the time."</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She narrowed her eyes at his vague explanation but looked too spent and boneless to pursue it. He didn’t want to explain to her why he wouldn’t let her reciprocate. It was one thing, he felt, to pleasure her, but another step entirely to take his pleasure from her, like that would somehow be worse than what they had already done. The nail in the coffin of his infidelity.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He rolled off of her and for a moment, they lay side by side, looking up at the ceiling, catching their breaths.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Inexplicably, she asked, “Will you tell your wife about us?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I don’t know,” he said, honestly, “I should.” In truth, he had been thinking about that for some time. If Yulia suspected, she hadn’t said anything. Wouldn’t say anything. Somehow that made him feel worse, like he was taking advantage of her looking the other way.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Why?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">A pause. “You don’t want me to?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I imagine it would be better for you not to,” she clarified.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He turned his head to look at her, peering into her eyes, as if in them he could discern the source of her moral failure. To confirm his suspicions, he asked, “If you were married, would you keep your infidelity a secret?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I wouldn’t get married,” she countered, flippantly, starting to sound annoyed.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He may have loved her, but in that moment, he disliked her, experienced the disillusionment of discovering that the object of one’s fantasies was fallible up close. “Just because you have no respect for the promises you make does not mean that I don’t either.” He felt the atmosphere morph from the calm, post-coital haze to something more ugly and tense.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She looked deeply wounded that. “It takes two, Vasya,” she reminded him, voice dripping with disdain.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He didn’t need reminding. It was like a barb in the chest. He resisted the urge to tell her to get out, in those words. Instead he said “You should leave.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She was silent for a moment. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “Fine,” she said coldly, and got up and hastily picked up her clothing and started pulling it on. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and lit one, suddenly desperate for the chemical calm. He watched her dress, assuming the blank expression that he wore most of the day, waging an internal battle between his anger and his desire to apologize for the entire exchange and beg her to stay, to fall asleep wrapped in each others arms.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">His anger won. Anger that he spent every waking moment grappling with his choices, past and present, and it was just <em>easy </em>for her. That she couldn’t acknowledge that he was risking everything he cared about in his life for a few moments with her. So instead of relenting, he smoked silently as she went to the door. She opened it and peeked out, quickly closing it again. “Not clear,” she croaked, hoarsely. Something about her aborted exit made the moment even worse, more excruciating. She waited a few more seconds in stony silence, peeked out again, and the left without looking back at him or saying goodbye.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">-</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">There was only one day left in the tournament after that, and thanks to his earlier defeat of Beth, he won handily. They avoided each other studiously for the rest of the day, averting their gaze when they crossed paths in the tournament hall. His flight home was that same evening and she didn’t seem interested in saying goodbye or making amends, so he didn’t try either. They would see each other in only one month’s time, in Siegen, in West Germany, for the Chess Olympiad, and he presumed any making up would be done then, since there wouldn’t be much time for letters.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">As he packed, he resolved to tell Yulia everything. He could be cold, hard, opaque. He had learned that growing up on his own, and he wore it like armour even now. But his family, his wife, his son, they were the bright, warm spots in his life. It was his greatest accomplishment to have a family, even more so than his achievement in chess. Being present and providing for them was all he had ever wanted to achieve.</p><p class="p2">He loved his wife, truly. She was intelligent, kind, a good mother to his son. They had met almost fifteen years ago. She was a schoolteacher a high school where he had been playing in a local tournament. She was working on the weekend and found him in her classroom, where he had fled for a moment of peace to analyze a board. She had asked him about himself and even come to watch his game that afternoon. They kept in touch after that, courted, and were married only a few months later. It was all very decorous, at her insistence; they didn’t even kiss until their wedding day. She didn’t come from a wealthy family either, and they didn’t have a lot when they were first married, but he liked that she was a proud woman, insisting his suits were pressed for tournaments and always attending when she could, transforming his straightforward Russian into warmer English for the foreign press. In the meantime she patiently taught him English, even though he was slow to learn and the language still felt unwieldy in his mouth. Their son was now eleven years old, bright and happy. He didn't have much interest in chess, but Borgov was happy for him to find his own path in life.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">So, Yulia did not deserve to continue to be an unconsenting party to this affair. She should know the truth.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">In his mind, he made arrangements for after their inevitable divorce. She and Maxim could stay at their large, comfortable Moscow apartment. Perhaps they could even hire a woman to help, if she wanted. He would find a smaller flat nearby, but still large enough for his son to come stay sometimes. He would continue to be involved in his son's life, and he would make sure they wanted for nothing.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Just as he was zipping up his bag, a knock sounded at the door. He answered it at once, apprehensive, but it was only the bellhop with an envelope. “<em>Pour vous, Monsieur Borgov.</em>” He nodded and closed the door again, hoping that none of his minders had witnessed this suspicious delivery. The envelope was blank, unaddressed, so he knew immediately that it was for her. He looked at it for a hard moment and then tucked it into his briefcase. He could not bear to read it now, afraid that it would sway him from the confession that needed to occur. But neither could he discard nor destroy it.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">-</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The flight home, only a few hours, felt at once torturously long and altogether too short. He took a taxi from the airport and let himself into his apartment quietly. It was after midnight, so Maxim would already be asleep. A light flickered on from down the hall, and Yulia emerged from their bedroom, pulling her robe around herself,smiling. She didn’t say anything but came forward to greet him. He kissed her perfunctorily. “Yulechka,” he murmured.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Do you want something to eat? I can warm up some stew,” she said quietly, careful not to wake their son.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“No, thank you,” he replied, trying to muster up his courage. He should wait, do it at a more opportune moment, after enough time to compose the right words. But he couldn't bear to hold onto the burden for even a moment longer.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“A cup of tea?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Tea, alright - Yulia, please, I need to talk to you about something.” He followed her into the kitchen.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She looked at him over her shoulder, detecting the seriousness of his tone, face blanching. “Is it them - do they - do they want you to do something?” She was always terrified that the KGB would make some ask that would put him in danger. She knew that they coveted Beth for her ability to best him, her ability to speak Russian, and her penchant for playing chess in Russian parks. There interest seemed to wane somewhat as it became clear that he could still consistently best her, but he worried for the inevitable day when he couldn't any longer.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“No, no,” he assured her. “It’s not that. No one is in danger.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She relaxed visibly, but still looked expectant. “What, then?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He was silent for a moment. Forcing the words to come was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. “I have been unfaithful to you,” he told her, voice cracking.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The colour that had returned to her face a moment ago left again. The kettle started whistling, so she turned away from him to pluck it off the stove. instead of pouring a cup, she braced her hands on the countertop, back to him. “With <em>her</em>,” she said, and itwas a statement, not a question. Yulia was perceptive. He didn’t think he’d been particularly obvious about it, but if anyone was to notice the infinitesimally too long glances over the chess board, it would be her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yes,” he confirmed, a deep sadness welling in his chest. This was the moment where he would ruin his own life, the cataclysm an odd contrast to the domestic picture they painted, together in the kitchen with tea on the stove and her hair up in rollers.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, finally turning around. She didn’t look sad, or upset. Only angry.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He was rendered momentarily speechless, unsure how to respond. “Because you deserved to know the truth.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yes, but did you ever stop to think that maybe I wouldn’t want it?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He blinked slowly, feeling thoroughly confused. This was the exact same sentiment that he had quarrelled with Beth over just hours before. Was he really in the wrong here to not want to continue lying? Or was it selfish of him to want to ease his damning burden?</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I’m not an idiot, Vasily,” she continued, stepping into the silence, “I know what men do when they travel for work. I don’t ask questions about what you do when you’re away and I’m not there. Although, there were never really very many women around,” she laughed, bitterly.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yulia, I’m sorry -“</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Will you keep seeing her, your Lolita?” She demanded, as if not even having heard him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“What?” he asked, still feeling dazed. The reference wounded him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Will you keep seeing her,” she said, punctuating every word, drawing out the syllables like she was trying to explain a difficult concept to one of her students.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“I- “ he could hardly bring himself to say yes. “I had thought you would want me to leave,” he said, settling for the implication instead. He truly hadn't considered that she would want it any other way. Nor had he considered putting an end to their affair, at least not once he had made the decision to confess. How foolish of him, how selfish.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Ah, so you’ve decided that for me too, I see?” They were well matched. Her anger was like his, cold, unfeeling, like a sharp knife. That was one of the things that had drawn him to her, that she could stand up to him when he was in a mood.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He drew in a long breath. “Do you want me to leave?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">She was quiet for a moment, and the very edges of her anger softened into sadness. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I’m going to bed.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Yulia, please, let’s talk about this,” he pleaded.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Talk about what?” She snapped. “It’s done. Sleep in your office.” She left the kitchen, not looking at him. A moment later he heard their bedroom door slam.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">He got up robotically, ostensibly to finish making his cup of tea. Instead he rested his elbows on the countertop and cried, something he had not done since he was a child.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Siegen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, got a bit porny here, sorry not sorry. Love to hear from you, please drop a note if you're enjoying!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The American team playing in this year’s Chess Olympiad didn’t even meet until the first day of the competition in Siegen. It was just as well; chess wasn’t really a team sport, and it wasn’t as if they had control over the matchups in a way that meant they could strategize. Beth didn’t have much support from her teammates. Of them, only Benny could hold a candle to the Soviet team, and the Hungarian and Yugoslav teams also promised a strong showing. The US hadn’t won an Olympiad since 1937, and Beth was eager to see if they could fix that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The excitement of her first Olympiad proved a good distraction from the simultaneous anticipation and dread she felt at the prospect of seeing Vasya again. Their quarrel had weighed heavily on her for the few weeks that she was home. She knew there wasn’t time to receive a letter from him in the meantime, but the silence between them felt difficult to bear. She hoped that he had read the letter she left him before leaving Marseilles. Being the object of his anger made her feel chastened for the first time, witness to the emotional cost of their affair. It wasn't enough to get her to stop; she often toyed idly with the idea in her mind, but she didn’t <em>want </em>to, and worse, she wasn’t sure if she could. What she had traded away in drugs in alcohol she found in him, a draw more powerful and intoxicating than they would ever be. She resolved to let him come to her rather than do more damage by pursuing him before he was ready. But that hadn’t stopped her from donning one of her sexy-but-not-too-sexy gala dresses, a shiny, a-line red number cut tastefully just above the knee.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She was meeting Benny at the hotel bar, spotting him in his usual jeans and cowboy hat, looking out of place as usual. She took a seat next to him, greeting him with a cool “Benny.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He gave her a once over, but without any real intent. “You trying to impress someone, Harmon?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Not you,” she said, smiling. “Why, can’t a girl get dressed up for her millionth chess gala with a bunch of nerds?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“They won’t know what hit ‘em,” he said, tipping his beer back into his mouth. She obediently ordered a soda. Her and Benny’s love affair had tapered off quite some time ago, him being in New York, her in Kentucky, and neither of them quite willing to give up their home turf. They had settled into an easy, intimate friendship, chatting on the phone sometimes about tactics, seeing each other occasionally at tournaments. If she slipped up and got drunk and tried to seduce him, well, he would <em>probably </em>turn her down.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Benny didn’t like to travel out of the country too often anymore, but the Olympiad wasn’t an event to be missed. Despite the excitement of the new potential conquest, Beth felt bored with her surroundings, another nondescript bar in a nondescript hotel in a nondescript city. Certainly some of the tournament locales had their advantages, like the easy Mediterranean coast in Marseilles, and though this Westphalian town had its charms, it wasn't quite that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m bored,” she said suddenly, slightly petulantly. “Don’t you get bored of this?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Benny looked at her incredulously. “The chess?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No, of course not. The travel. The hotels, the hotel bars, the galas, the same people, over and over…” She knew she shouldn’t be complaining, but she also knew that Benny would understand.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He shrugged. “I’ve been bored of that part for years.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Maybe I should just stay home.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You’d be even more bored at home,” he told her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You’re probably right,” she sighed. Despite her ennui with that aspect of it, her secret kept her counting down the days on her calendar, waiting for the next tournament, imagining the next moment she and Vasya would lay eyes on each other. This time she felt nervous, even a little sick at the prospect of trying to make up. She hadn’t told anyone other than Townes and Jolene about what was going on; Harry was too straight-laced to understand, and Benny would just think she was completely insane. She probably was. “Maybe I should start drinking again.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Benny looked at her dubiously, with some concern.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m kidding,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “Shall we?” she asked. The bar was starting to empty as the players and their entourage drifted into the banquet hall.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He sighed and got up, reluctantly, scooping his leather jacket into one arm. “Thirty minutes and then I’m going to bed,” he told her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She rolled her eyes. “Ok, old man, don’t stay up past your bedtime.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Benny offered her his arm. She hesitated for a split second, and then took it. Maybe Borgov was a jealous man.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It turned out, he was. They spotted each other immediately as she entered the hall and the look on his face told her there would be no games tonight.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The elevator ride was torturously slow. Beth studied their faces in the mirrored art deco walls, both impassive, beautiful, like an image in a magazine. She had a brief flash, as one sometimes does, of stepping outside her subjectivity and seeing herself as others did. They made a pretty pair, him all clean lines and severe features and her soft curves and wide eyes and copper hair. He was doing the same, looking at them together in the mirror, but less curious and more lustful, wolfish. For a moment, Beth let herself imagine that they were a normal couple, one that didn’t have to hide, returning to their hotel room after a pleasant evening to make love and wake up together in the morning. She banished the thought and the deep pang that accompanied it, embracing instead the lust that had ignited within her like a flame catching on a damp piece of wood, lazy and slow but steadily growing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She saw it happen to mirror-Beth before she felt it herself; the ghost of a whisper as his hand slid around to the inside of her wrist, tracing slowly down into the palm of her hand with just the tips of his fingers. She shivered, certain he could feel her heartbeat pounding at her pulse point, not daring to take his hand, remaining stock still as his fingertips met hers.</p><p class="p2">
  
</p><p class="p1">Unbidden, a fantastical image of them together in the elevator intruded on her thoughts - her, propped up precariously on the brass handrail, her dress pushed up just high enough for him to fuck her, still fully clothed, her ankle curled around his back, heel leaving whitish-grey marks on the charcoal of his suit…</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The elevator dinged, wrenching her from her fantasies. His hand snapped back to his side. They strode purposefully to her room, ready to feign some excuse about chess analysis if they were intercepted, but the look that Borgov wore on his face ensured that no one would dare ask.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As he closed the door behind them, she finally uttered, “I’m sorry,” for last time, for next time, for everything.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Not now,” he told her, and then he was kissing her, hungrily, exacting, hands roaming roughly over her breasts, down her backside. She reached for his belt buckle and this time he didn’t stop her as she sank to her knees and dragged her nails down the front of his trousers worshipfully, feeling his unmistakeable hardness. He groaned as she pressed her face to his cock, nuzzling it under the fabric of his underwear, breathing in the forbidden, musky scent of him. She yanked his nondescript briefs down his hips, eyes hungrily taking in the sight.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">If he had any misgivings about this before, they were gone now.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Suck,” he told her, in crisp Russian. She blinked up at him, a fresh wave of desire exploding in her chest at the sound of such a vulgar demand from a polite man. She parted her lips, first, a tentative swipe of her tongue at the weeping head of his cock, considering, and then closed her lips around him, knowing that whatever control he thought he had was hers now, relishing her power over him as she hollowed out her cheeks again and again. He made a rumbling, inhuman noise, his hand tangling gently in her hair. She could feel the tension behind his fingers as he tried to restrain himself from gripping too hard. He thrust deeper into her mouth, and she choked a little, causing him to make that animal sound again. Beth decided that being the cause of that sound was better than beating him at chess a thousand times.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He didn’t let it go on for much longer; if he were a younger man, it would already be over. The hand that was curled in her hair reached down to grasp her roughly under her arm, pulling her up to stand. They locked eyes for a moment, chest both heaving, while Beth sniffled a little and swiped delicately at the shiny spittle around the sides of her mouth. He reached for the hem of her dress, pulling it up and sliding his hand down as if to get under her panties. Finding none, he made something between a groan and admonishing tut. She giggled, both at the noise and her premeditated accomplishment. This seemed to only inflame him further, and he silenced her with another kiss as his fingers continued on their way between her legs. He grazed her clit roughly, earning an “Ah!” and an uncontrollable buck of her hips.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She mewled in disappointment as he withdrew his hand, grabbing hold of her hips and steering her towards the bed, her back to his chest, crowding her forward until she all but tripped forward onto the mattress, recovering herself on her hands and knees.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She moved to turn and face him, but his voice stopped her. “Stay,” he commanded, and then, just as she was about to tell him that she wasn’t a dog, he said, softer, “Just like that.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked back at him, blinking compliantly, willing to play along for now, and then arched her back to wave her ass further into the air. He pushed the skirt of her dress up to her waist, revealing the shiny prize in between her legs. He grasped her hips firmly and she yelped in surprise as he surged forward and licked a long stripe up her cunt. “Show me how you touch yourself, Lizotchka,” he said thickly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Tentatively, she reached a hand down between her legs, slowly circling her clit with two fingers in just the way that she liked. “I always think of you when I touch myself like this,” she ventured, wondering if she could match the effortless eroticism of his words. It seemed to have the desired effect; he didn’t say anything in reply but he sighed deeply in appreciation.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Keep going,” he told her, and she cried out again as she felt him sink two of his fingers deep into her. She faltered at the intrusion, but kept rubbing as he started penetrating her with his fingers. Her other hand fisted tightly in the bedsheets as she buried her face in the mattress to muffle the sounds issuing from her. The hand she was touching herself with began to move more erratically as her muscles tired and she felt that familiar tension building up inside her. All it took was the fantasy that it was his cock and not his fingers moving in her to make her come with a muffled shout into the mattress, knees giving out underneath her as she collapsed into a heap, blood rushing in her ears and muffling the world around her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of her, the tension she had been holding in forcing its way through the cracks. She wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying; probably both. She didn’t try to stop herself, enjoying the cathartic release of feeling almost as much as she had enjoyed her orgasm. She rolled over onto her back, still laughing, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Vasya seemed confused, concerned by her reaction.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Are you alright?” he crawled down to meet her, arms closing around her, face to face. “Was it too much?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” she giggled a little more, and then hiccuped. “I mean yes, I’m alright. I’m fine, really. That was just a long time coming.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb, one hand rubbing calming circles on her back. She closed her eyes, relishing the warm sensation of his embrace, a feeling she had imagined just as much, if not more, than sex with him. She tried to take a snapshot of this feeling, the memory of which would get her through some lonely nights. It felt so poignant and sweet that she was nostalgic for the moment before it was even gone.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Help me with my dress?” she asked softly. He nodded, and the hand that was rubbing her back found her zipper and tugged, slowly, his other hand sliding the fabric from her shoulders. She started on the buttons of his shirt, and they undressed each other slowly, more intimately and less urgent than before, touching, exploring, kissing softly. When they were both naked, she pressed her body flush against his, enjoying the contact of skin on skin. As they kissed, the intensity built once more, his cock fully hardening again against her stomach. He rolled them so that she was on her back, neck propped up on the lofty pillows. Then he reached between them and guided himself to her entrance, pausing, looking searchingly for her approval. She nodded once, her fingers contracting tightly over his hips as he pushed carefully inside her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They both exhaled simultaneously. Beth felt something like relief, something like belonging, the rest of the world far away for now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Siegen (II) / Moscow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry about the delay on this one. It was getting me a bit down so I needed to take a break and write something else a little more light hearted, so if you want to see these two get high at a drive-in movie, please go check out my fic High Times and Red Vines *shameless plug*. I went through a few iterations of trying to write this, needing to pull back on the Borgov melodrama a little, but I'm not sure if I succeeded.</p><p>I am also doing history a bit dirty here. Spassky (“Borgov”) and Fischer (“Beth”) faced off at this 19th Chess Olympiad in Siegen, West Germany in 1970, where Spassky won. That is not what happens here, for the purposes of the narrative, though I do reproduce most of their actual game up until the decisive point, but yeah, don't look too hard. But, then again, TQG has never been too faithful to chess history, so I don’t feel too bad. </p><p>The detail about unmarried men being unable to travel is true; if you're interested in a real story of a Soviet chess defector, read about Victor Korchnoi's defection in 1976. He did leave his wife and son behind.</p><p>P.S. if anyone wants to play crap daily chess with me on chess.com my username there is noadlersahob :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Borgov glanced at the clock. It was late; early, rather. Beth slept soundly beside him, turned away, her naked body tangled in the white bedsheets. Her bottom arm was extended, palm up, fingers curled, golden light from the lamp beside her glowing through her delicate fingers. He tried to commit it to his memory like light searing its path through silver on unexposed film. He wanted to smoke yet another cigarette but didn’t want to wake her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He wondered how it was that she could sleep so peacefully while he felt like his life was tearing apart at the seams. Perhaps their relationship was just part of the normal course of her young life; a first love, perhaps, to be remembered fondly, a story to tell her grandchildren. There would be other lovers, other loves for her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">But no more for him.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">The situation was wholly untenable; the depth of his feeling was crushing, suffocating, and he didn’t know how much longer he could bear it. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat; a man with red-rimmed eyes and hollow cheeks looked back at him in the mirror. Even Luchenko, usually so jovial and ready to smooth out the creases of life, was sending worried glances his way.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Would she defect if he asked it of her? Maybe. On this he did not know her heart. Certainly she was well-loved enough, had charmed enough old men in Gorky Park. In some ways she even seemed more Soviet than American. Moscow could be charming, at least, the parts of it she had been shown. Maybe she could be happy with him, for a time. The state would provide for them if he could secure her. But he would <em>never</em> ask it of her, and if she offered, he would threaten never to speak to her again rather than let her trade away her freedom for him. If she saw a future for herself in Russia, it would not be with him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Equally, he couldn’t imagine defecting to America, not while he had his son to raise. Yulia was a true patriot; she would laugh in his face if he asked her to come with him, not least because it would be to follow his mistress.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">And perhaps this made him a coward, but he found it hard enough to live in a world that was already familiar to him to consider a new one. He couldn't imagine living in a place where the language didn't quite fit into his mouth, where he would forever feel and been seen as stiff, intimidating, unapproachable, where the sights and sounds took so much effort to decode.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Overwhelmed with his sadness, he reached for her. How terrible that she was both the burn and the salve.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Hi,” she said sweetly, sleepily, looking over her shoulder. “Are you going?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” he said quietly, tucking stray whips of hair behind her ear. “Not yet.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Good,” she smiled at that. He couldn’t help but smile too, kissing her cheek gently. She rolled over to face him and their limbs tangled, her fingertips idly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Again?” she giggled, feeling his cock stir against her belly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I am not <em>so</em> old,” he told her, his hand stroking her hip.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Prove it,” she dared him, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The next day they faced off over a chessboard. It was clearly the showcase event, with hundreds, if not thousands of spectators. He hadn’t seen Beth since slipping reluctantly out of her hotel room just before dawn. She came in right on time, faltering a little as she realized the size of the crowd. Certainly she had had time to grow used to the flashbulbs, the whispers, the reporters and the gawking crowd - but not as long as he had. He saw her take a deep breath and curl her fingers into the palm of her hand with resolve.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They shook hands over the board, and he gave her a reassuring nod. Then he fixed his face, and they were no longer Beth and Vasya but Grandmasters Harmon and Borgov.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He was playing white. Opened with d4. She responded with Nf6, her kingside knight. Him, c4. Her, g6. Him, knight to c3. Her, d5 to meet his queen pawn. He responded to her overture and took her pawn on d5. It was the Grünfeld Defense, exchange variation, a textbook opening like any other, but a prelude to much more. She took back with her knight. For a few moves they battled to both be the aggressor, on the offensive.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Two hours later, thirty-four moves in, they were still equal in material, each with a queen, rook, knight, and four pawns left on the board. He had a slight positional advantage. Her king was sheltered way in the back corner. Just then, he saw the move that would very likely win him the game. His queen and knight were lined up on the diagonal to her king, and moving his knight to threaten her queen would also be a check by discovery. It wasn’t a totally sure thing; she could counter with a queen exchange, but it would give him the initiative in the endgame, and while she was good at starting things he was still much better at finishing them.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Another loss would stoke her competitive rage. For him, there would be more accolades. More tournaments. More time with her. He still had decades left in the game, if he wanted them. They could spend two or three nights together, once or twice a year. The thought was unexpectedly bleak.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Or, he could lose to her now. The choice was his; just the right move, one not too obvious, would throw the game. She had the raw talent, but he was still the better player, still firmly in control of the game, win or lose. His choice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His heart pounded in his chest. He tried to regulate his breathing into something resembling a normal cadence, forcing his body to relax as he considered.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was not an instant solution, but it would set a precedent. Girev was performing extremely well on the circuit, getting better with each game. The boy was very talented; he would would be their next golden goose, a Soviet child prodigy to mirror the American one, even younger, precocious. A string of losses would only accelerate his retirement. And if Yulia decided to divorce him, they wouldn’t let him travel anymore, anyway. They only let married men travel out of the country, their families the best collateral possible.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She would almost certainly protest if she knew his plan; she would scream and cry, probably, or try and throw something at him. But he would not be her jailor. He could set them both free.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He swallowed, loosened his tie, feeling the gravity of his choice, like a man with a gun to his head trying to convince himself to pull the trigger.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His hand twitched, and he forced it to the board, seizing his rook and dragging it a few squares to the left. It was a plausible counter-attack. It would only be an error in retrospect if she played as he hoped she would.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Efficient as always, in seven more moves it was clear the game was hers. She gazed at him for a moment, expression curious. He worried that he had been made. Maybe others wouldn’t notice, but they knew each other as intimately as opponents as they did as lovers. But then the spark of recognition faded away and was replaced by triumph and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The room was very silent for a moment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I resign,” he said, with finality. Applause erupted; they were on the Western side of the Iron Curtain, after all. They stood, shook hands. She looked radiant, as she always did in the light of a win. His handlers would want words with him. Losing his touch, they might tell him, starting to make it a habit, losing against this American girl.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She smiled as photos were snapped around them. She put a hand on his shoulder in what looked like a conciliatory, if intimate gesture. “Have dinner with me tonight,” she whispered, trying not to move her lips too much, loud enough only for him to hear. The gesture didn’t look too out of place, fortunately. They had been playing each other for the last four years, after all, and he had <em>hugged </em>her in Moscow. It was only natural they would develop some kind of rapport as opponents.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He went back to his room, smoked two cigarettes, and when that didn’t calm his frayed nerves, he went to the bathroom and threw some cold water on his face. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a long sigh. There was some small measure of peace in his choice, giving him the strength he needed to take his tempest of emotions and crumple them into a pinprick singularity. It was a trick he had learned long ago, giving him the space in his body for his muscles to function, one foot in front of the other until she was only a hazy memory, an old scar that only ached from time to time. From nowhere he remembered that he had learned in school that Friedrich Nietzsche had gone mad after seeing the wanton cruelty of a horse being beaten in the street, and smiled a little to himself, wondering what the last straw for him would be.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Despite her victory the Soviet Union would still take Olympiad gold by just half a point; she may have been a prodigy, but the rest of the American team was hardly up to snuff. Nevertheless, their accomplishment seemed dwarfed in the press by her singular victory.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> An old version of him might have been annoyed, but found he no longer had an emotional stake in the results of the tournament.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">At half past eight he excused himself from his company and said he was turning in, ignoring the ribs from his teammates about how he was getting old.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He knocked quietly at Beth’s door and heard a muffled “It’s open,” from the other side, so he let himself in. She was seated at the little breakfast table, pen in hand. She smiled at him as she saw him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. It struck him that it felt like the first time they were just spending a pleasant evening together without the immediate urgency of a forbidden tryst (though that would come later). It felt like they had all the time in the world, but also none at all. He was suddenly nervous. He wanted to have dinner with her, to just talk, to just hold her, and realized that they had spent very little time together where they were not either fucking or playing chess competitively.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Who are you writing?” he ventured.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Oh, just a postcard to Jolene. She likes me to send her one from all the places I visit. A habit Alma got me into.” Her eyes unfocused a little as she thought of her mother.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Your mother would be very proud of you if she could see you now.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">A silent moment passed. “Are you proud of me?” she asked, quirking her head at him, and suddenly he saw the teenage girl he had first met in Mexico City.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He considered her for a moment, thought about the fact that she was looking to him for approval. Did she want it from him as a rival? A mentor? A father? A lover?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You are the most formidable player of a generation,” he offered her. He tried again. “I did not help to make you what you are like your mother did… pride does not seem… <em>apt</em>,” he said the last word in Russian, unable to find a suitable English equivalent. </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She made something like a huff and returned to her letter, and he felt a chill spread through the room. He ran a hand through his hair and went to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her pen paused. “Don’t be angry,” he told her. “We have so little time. Spend the evening with me,” he said, fingers trailing down the side of her bare neck. Despite herself, she tilted her neck into his hand, seeking the warmth of his touch. When she stood, he thought it would be to kiss him, or to slap him, or tell him off. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug instead, and he welcomed her into his arms, tenderness blooming so rapidly in his chest that it was painful.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m hungry,” she said into his shirt.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He laughed. It was exactly the right thing to pull him back from the edge of despair. “What would you like to eat?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They ordered room service (Borgov carefully tucking himself out of sight in the bathroom as it was delivered) and talked over dinner. He was satisfied to find that conversation between them wasn’t particularly slow or stilted. He delighted in discovering Beth’s little quirks, like how she picked at little bits of her food with her fingers and crossed her long gazelle-like legs up into her chair when she wasn’t in polite company.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Have a bath with me,” she said, smiling somewhat impishly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He gave her a look that said something like <em>Soviet men don’t take baths</em>. “We weren’t allowed them in the orphanage, either,” she said, by way of response. “So it still feels a little decadent. But they’re really quite nice.” She didn’t wait for him to agree, just went to the bathroom to draw the bath.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He cleared up the plates and set them near the door, looking around the room and relishing the signs of <em>her</em>, the rumpled top sheet, her suitcase with her already-worn clothes exploding out of it, the sound of the water running in the next room. It could just as easily be all a dream, the imagining of his lonely mind. She shut off the taps and the room was silent again. He felt a sudden, irrational fear that she was in fact just a figment of his imagination, so he went to the bathroom to assure himself that she was still there. She was already in the tub, hair pulled up into a small but delicate bun to keep it dry. He sat on the edge of the bath and put his hand on her shoulder, warm and damp, for extra reassurance.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“The orphanage you grew up in, did they mistreat you?” he asked her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Get in and I’ll tell you,” she told him, and for a split second he was angry that she would wield these intimate details about herself, the ones he was so desperate to know, to coerce him. But he gave in, unbuttoning his shirt and folding his clothes into a neat pile on the counter. He felt somewhat self-conscious as he stepped in, displacing the water and trying to sit as gracefully as possible. She settled into the spot between his legs and leaned back into his chest, her head rolling back onto his shoulder, and he decided that maybe baths weren’t so terrible after all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“We weren’t mistreated, no. I’m sure there were other orphanages much worse than mine. We had enough to eat. No one hit us. They gave us pills, though, to <em>even the disposition</em>,” she said the last part disdainfully. “I learned that if I saved them for a few days and took them all at night I could see chess games on the ceiling. I would stay up all night and play myself, or study old games.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He thought back to Moscow, how she had looked up, and everyone, himself included, had looked up with her and wondered what she had seen.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I can do that without pills, now - see the games in my head,” she clarified. “But I still miss them. The clarity they brought was… easy.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He stroked her wrists with the tips of his fingers as she told the story, quiet, absorbing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Do you see games in your head like that?” She asked him softly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">A pause. “Not on the ceiling like you do. I see the pieces as if they were a real army on a battlefield and I am watching from above. I have since I first learned to play.” He doesn’t mention that of late the white queen has decidedly copper hair.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“That sounds more exciting than mine,” she told him</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He smiled. “Yours sounds more efficient.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Do you want to hear the rest of my sad story?” she asked.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Only if you want to tell me,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to the tops of her shoulders.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I do,” she said, but it seemed as if she didn’t know where to start.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He knew most of it, from the dossier on her that he had had read, from the rumours, the interviews, what she had told him herself. But not all of it. “What happened to your parents?” he asked.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I never knew my father. My mother raised me until she died. She was… not well.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Sick?” he asked.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Sick in the head,” Beth said softly. “She was a mathematician. A brilliant woman. Too brilliant. When I was eight she decided she wanted to end her life and took us for a drive. She wanted me to go with her. But I survived.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Borgov felt a little sick hearing her tell the story. From his own experience as a father he couldn’t fathom what it would take to abandon, much less to hurt his own child.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” was all he could say, but his heart was breaking. How could he add himself to the long list of people she thought didn’t want her?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">"Sometimes I worry that I'm like her, that whatever makes me good at chess makes me bad at everything else. Bad <em>for</em> everyone else."</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He felt her shrug in his arms. “So that’s my sad story. And here we are.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Here we are,” he murmured, contemplative. She knew that she did not need his pity, his assurances. That she would rebuff him if he tried.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She took his hand and guided it between her legs. “We don’t have to -“ he started.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Touch me,” she commanded, quietly but firmly. When she came he watched the ripples in the water roll away from them, their amplitude decreasing until they disappeared into glassy stillness.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">When he returned home, this time, it was the middle of the day. Maxim was still at school and Yulia was seated on the sofa halfway through a thick looking novel, her reading glasses perched far down her nose.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Hello,” he said, putting his bags down.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked up, expression static. “Hello. Did you have a good flight?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yes, thank you.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She turned the page of her book as he shucked his jacket. Then, as if she was telling him something entirely mundane, “Tomorrow you will look for a new apartment. Somewhere nearby so that Maxim can stay with you on weekends.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He blinked. There it was. At least she would not try to keep their son from him. “Very well,” he told her. “We should divorce,” he said. “You need not be chained to me.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked up at him like this wasn’t something she had considered. “But that would be the end of your chess career,” she told him, perplexed. Even through her anger she had not been so vindictive to try and take that from him, and he was grateful to her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It is already over,” he told her, flatly. “I will retire soon. I will find another way to provide for you and Maxim.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She nodded. “Will she defect?” she asked, meaning Beth.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” he said, affronted. His wife raised an eyebrow. “That is over too,” he said, softly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Does she know that yet?” Yulia asked.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” he admitted.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She made a small “hm” noise. “Still robbing others of their agency, I see.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He didn’t know what to say to that. “There’s a plate for you in the fridge,” she told him, and then went back to her book as if it were nothing at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Vancouver</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I kind of regret that earlier in the story I more or less made up fun locales for tournaments, while now I am trying to stick a little closer to the historical record. In this chapter I’ve basically swapped Beth in for Bobby Fischer’s path to world champion. He did play Mark Taimanov in 1971 in Vancouver as Beth does in this chapter. I suspect Spassky (Borgov) probably wouldn’t travel so far not to play, but we have a fanfic to write here people! If you were dubious of the consequences for Soviet players in losing (especially to Americans), here’s what Taimanov had to say about the results of his loss to Fischer:</p><p>"The sanctions from the Soviet government were severe. I was deprived of my civil rights, my salary was taken away from me, I was prohibited from travelling abroad and censored in the press. It was unthinkable for the authorities that a Soviet grandmaster could lose in such a way to an American, without a political explanation. I therefore became the object of slander and was accused, among other things, of secretly reading books of Solzhenitsin. I was banned from society for two years, it was also the time when I separated from my first wife, Lyubov Bruk."</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Dear V,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I wanted to tell you about my mother. Of course, you know when I say my mother, I mean my adoptive mother, but it bears repeating. In English we have an expression - blood is thicker than water - it means that family is the most important thing. Do you have something like that in Russian? Anyway, blood has never meant much to me. Alma may not have given birth to me, but she was my mother.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Mr. Wheatley, her husband, he wasn’t particularly interested in being a father. I guess I’ve had bad luck with fathers. But I guess you have too, so you understand. And I don’t think Alma was particularly interested in chess, at first or ever, really. She liked the travelling, the hotels, the restaurants, the sight-seeing, the shopping. I suppose that makes her sound vain, but she wasn’t. Or if she was, she deserved to be. Her life was very lonely before then. And it didn’t matter that she didn’t get chess, because she supported me. She was happy that I was happy, that I was successful, even if she didn’t understand, even if she’d rather I was a famous pianist. I don’t know much about good parents but I think that’s what good parents are supposed to do.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I think that you are a good father. You choose your son over me and that’s how it should be.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I miss you - I dream about you.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>B</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>My darling,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Thank you for telling me about your mother. I remember her from Mexico City but I am sorry that we were never acquainted. I would have liked to hear her play. Thank you for saying that about me. I won’t bore you with the depth of my self-loathing but it means more than you know.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>You asked me in Siegen if I was proud of you and I know you found my response wanting. I wanted to explain in a way that is easier in writing. Pride is a selfish emotion. Pride is a parent saying, “Behold this child that I made. Whatever it accomplishes is mine, because I gave it life and sustained it. Without me, the child is nothing.” So, no, I am not proud of you, because your accomplishments are not mine. I only made you so far as you made me, as anyone makes anyone else by being in their company. Do you understand now?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I feel many other things for you, so many that they feel as though they do not all fit inside me. I am in awe of you. You are a force of nature, in chess and in life. I fear you. Sitting across from you at the chess board still makes me anxious, but exhilarated too. I resent you as much as I am grateful to you for forcing me to look hard at my life and take it into my own hands. But I also like you. It is a strange thing to say, but I want you to know that it is not all passion and the thrill of the forbidden. I enjoy talking to you, writing you, learning of your life and your friends, and your fears and desires.  And yes, don’t be cross; of course I love you. The feeling is so potent I can hardly believe that no one else has noticed it. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Ever yours,</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>V</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dear V,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Today I sat down and studied our game from Siegen and I found something strange. Why didn’t you make that discovery with your knight? It might have led to a queen exchange, yes, but you would have had the initiative. And we all know that you’re much better at endgames than I am.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Did you lose on purpose? I think I know the answer. I think I saw it when we played. But I didn’t want to see it, and I was too wrapped up in having won. I think I’ve been afraid to sit down and look at the game but today I did.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>B</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>B,</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I will explain in Vancouver.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>V.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It had been three weeks since Beth had received that last letter, and she was still absolutely furious, his brief note clearly an admission of guilt. She had been ruminating non-stop, vacillating between elation at his confession and fury at his betrayal. Why would he lose to her on purpose, knowing how hard she had worked to get where she was, knowing how much she had to prove? She thought back to Paris, and suddenly realized what it must have been like for him to have to play her in a such a state, the lack of respect she had shown him. But Paris was years ago, and surely he hadn’t been biding his time for so long to exact petty revenge.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Before, she was comforted by the thought that at least if word of their relationship ever got out, she would know in her heart that her triumphs over him were hard won. Now she could not say that for sure, and it the thought was devastating. Doubt and suspicion wormed their way into her heart, eating at her from the inside, and she imagined increasingly improbable scenarios of him throwing their games all along, of him being a devoted asset of his government, manipulating her, seducing her, playing her.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Now in Vancouver for the Candidates quarter-final, she would play six matches against Mark Taimanov, where winning would bring her one step closer to the right to challenge Borgov for his title of World Champion. She knew that he would be in attendance, presiding over his possible challengers, though he himself was not playing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The schedule for the matches was punishing, two a day with an extra day built in for overflow. Vancouver was beautiful, a rare confluence of ocean and mountain, striking even in the moody spring rain. She regretted that she would not have much opportunity to walk on the seawall, or take a whale watching tour on English Bay, to see the ridiculous steam clock in Gastown.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">The first day she beat Taimanov twice. The first game was relatively gruelling. Sometimes, playing a new player felt like learning a new game, especially when they were good and had a unique play style. She enjoyed the experience of gaining the understanding of how to play against them, the new tendencies and rules taking slow shape in her mind. This was what happened with Taimanov and the game second went somewhat more smoothly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She hadn’t seen Vasya arrive but she felt his eyes on her in the hotel ballroom and resolutely kept her eyes on the board, not wanting to test the fragile emotional stability that she required to play with a clear mind.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">That night she opted to skip the players’ dinner, appearances be damned. She wasn’t ready to face him and she had no energy left to maintain the veneer of indifference. Instead she ordered room service and sunk deep into a scalding bath until her skin turned pink, mind turning over and over the same thing like a chess puzzle for which there was no solution.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Finally at half past eleven a quiet knock came at the door. She opened it but did not stand aside, lips pursed. He clicked his tongue and pushed past her, worried about being seen.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“How did you know what room I was in?” she asked, crossing her arms.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I asked at the front desk,” he said, as if it was obvious.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Have you ever lost a game to me on purpose before Siegen?” she asked, desperate to satisfy her second-most burning question.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Then why did you do it?” </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He sank down on the edge of her bed, his normally straight back slouched, his hands massaging his temples. A part of her wanted to demand why he felt he could be so <em>familiar</em> with her, to come into her space and sit dejectedly on her bed when she wanted to rescind all of their intimacy.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I want to retire from chess,” he said, finally.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She looked hard at him for a long moment, not understanding. “Then retire.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It’s not that simple. You know I can’t do anything without permission. I am at the top of my game, they would never let me. Think about it, Beth. A string of losses to you. Perhaps you take the World Champion title from me next year. Georgi is a rising star; they won’t hesitate to replace me. Do you know what they will do to Taimanov if you keep beating him?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Beth swallowed. It was hard to think that beating people at a game would have serious impacts on their lives. It was just a game, after all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Just a game.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“If you retire I will never see you again.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yes.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You told me that you <em>love </em>me,” she said, accusing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yes I did. And I do. That is why we cannot carry on like this. Is this what you want, Elizabeth? To see each other once a year, to argue, to sneak around and have sordid trysts in hotel rooms, always worrying about being caught? What kind of life is that?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“</em>You can defect to America,” she said, but even as the words came out of her mouth, she realized how ridiculous they sounded, almost an insult.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I will not leave my son.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She let out a long, slow breath. “We can stop,” she said, desperate.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Can we? I don’t think so.” Every move she made, he parried. But it would not be a loss for her, nor a victory for him. A draw, mutually unsatisfying.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Then I’ll defect to the Soviet Union.” The queen sacrifice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His resignation transformed suddenly into righteous anger. “You will <em>not</em>. I won’t allow it.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You won’t <em>allow it</em>?” she said, voice deadly, stepping right into his space.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You don’t know what you’re saying. That is not the life that you want, Beth, your every move controlled, always on a string like a puppet.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You don’t get to decide for me!” she raised her voice, pressing a finger into his chest. He shushed her angrily.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Did you know that I was not allowed to be present for the birth of my son?” he told her, his voice barely above a furious whisper, his face so close she could feel his breath. “There was a minor tournament in Graz. I could have easily missed it without consequence, or returned home in a few hours. I didn’t meet him until he was a week old. They gave me everything, yes, just as they would give you a nice apartment and pretty clothes and fly you to tournaments. But it’s worth <em>nothing</em>, because they can take it all away in a <em>second. </em>What if one day you wanted to do something other than play chess? If you wanted to be something other than my dutiful wife? If you wanted to see your friends and family? Forget it now. If you try and defect,” he threatened, “I won’t have you.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">For a second she looked shellshocked by his statement.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He took a breath and exhaled his hot passion. In Russian, he said, “I want our time together to be a pleasant memory, my love. Not a bitter resentment. Do you understand?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She took a step forward into his arms and suddenly both their anger dissipated as he wrapped his arms around her, helpless. She felt hopeless, like she was trapped at a dead end in a maze and there was no way out no matter which direction she turned. Beth was used to not getting what she wanted in life. But she had never before wanted anything so badly as to find a way for them, and the deep sadness and anger threatened to rip out of her chest. He shushed her and whispered softly into her hair as she cried, her fingers fisted in his shirt. “I know, I know. I feel it too.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">When she was at last wrung out and had blown her nose, calmer but emptier than before,she asked, “Will you at least let me challenge you for the World Champion title?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yes. I wouldn’t take that away from you, if you want it. It would be good timing either way.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You’ll play your best,” Beth said, a statement, not a question. She had the disconcerting thought that if she won her Candidates matches, as seemed increasingly likely, she would be World Champion either way, since if Vasya resigned, the title would likely fall to her by default. She felt a brief flash of anxiety imagining a time when there was no longer an overarching goal serving as the edifice of her life.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“There will be no mercy,” he promised, and she was buoyed again by promise of a challenge to overcome.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They were too exhausted to make love that night, so instead they set an early alarm and wrapped themselves around each other, skin to skin, neither wanting to succumb to sleep and the dreary morning that it would bring. Sleep took them anyway, as it always does, eventually. They woke up to the sound of gulls crying. Beth opened the window to let the cool, salty early morning sea breeze into the room. A deep fog had descended over the city, giving everything the look of a badly exposed monochrome photograph. Somewhere in the distance to the North she could see just the peak of Mount Seymour with its remnants of winter snow. She lit a cigarette and watched the tendrils of smoke disappear into the fog.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Vasya came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She still wanted to be angry but there was no anger left, so she just sighed and relaxed into his embrace. “Run away with me,” she said, wistfully, but without real intent. She felt the rumble of his mirthless chuckle somewhere behind her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I was walking by the sea yesterday and I saw a crow pick up a clam in its beak," his voice soft in her ear. "It flew up high and then dropped the clam onto the concrete to break it open and eat the meat inside." </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Clever beast,” she said, then flicked her cigarette out the window and turned to face him in his arms, kissing him deeply, thoughtfully. His arms tightened around her and he let her walk him one step, two steps back onto the bed, and when she pushed him down and lowered herself onto him it felt like she was breaking <em>him </em>open and devouring the flesh inside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Moscow / Reykjavík</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the slowdown, folks. It's coming! Just, you know, life, and a lot of reflection on how best to wrap up this fic. Originally I had planned for ten chapters and maybe an epilogue, but I think it will probably be a few more than that. Feedback is always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“The Deputy Minister has not been pleased with your performance of late, Comrade Borgov.”</p><p>This statement, uttered to any other Soviet chess player, would send unpleasant shivers down the spine. But Borgov felt a pleasant warmth in his chest instead. He fixed a worried frown on his face. “I am equally displeased. The American girl -“</p><p>“The American girl, the American girl,” his interlocutor mocked. “Everyone seems to think that the American girl is an excuse for poor performance. If you are not able to defend your title as World Champion, Comrade Borgov, then…” he trailed off ominously.</p><p>“I will defend the title,” Borgov said firmly.</p><p>“But will you succeed?”</p><p>“I would wager my career on it.”</p><p>“Then you already know what is at stake. We would focus our efforts on the… younger generation. Tell me, Comrade Borgov,” the other man said, changing tack. “We are told that you have separated from your wife.”</p><p>Borgov let out a slow breath and thought a silent apology to Yulia for the lie he was about to tell. “She does not like that I am absent. She wants another child and we… have not been able.”</p><p>“What a pity. I hope for your sake that you can end this string of misfortunes soon.”</p><p>“I will do my utmost,” he said, and prayed that Beth would defeat him.</p><p>-</p><p>He did not travel to the rest of the Candidates matches after; he was not needed, and they were far away, in America, in Spain. He knew that Beth sported a shockingly perfect record, toppling Larsen, then Petrosian. It was all but assured now that she would be his challenger. He himself gave a mediocre performance despite his best efforts at the Alekhine Memorial tournament in Moscow, no doubt further cementing the image of his decline. It wasn’t much of an act to appear washed out; he felt it, most days, waking up alone in his small, crafty apartment, and dreading, rather than looking forward to practice and tournaments. The game had lost its lustre for him; he focused only on putting one foot in front of the other.</p><p>He filled his days the best he could, grateful for the distraction of having his son on the weekends. They went fishing, kicked a ball around outside. Vasily read while his son did his schoolwork. He cherished those last few moments before his son became a young man who did not find it fashionable to spend time with his father.</p><p>There were no letters in between; he figured Beth would write if she wanted to and so he did not initiate. He didn’t begrudge her the emotional distance that was no doubt required for her flawless performance on the circuit. During the final in the fall he awaited a phone call from Luchenko early each morning as Beth played best of twelve against Petrosian in Buenos Aires. She won the first, but lost the second, breaking her uninterrupted streak of thirteen wins. He could only imagine how she was feeling, knew how sensitive she was to a loss, and he worried for her. Each night he thought of her, prayed for her (something he never did), wished that he could comfort her, encourage her. Then came a string of draws, perhaps more frustrating than the loss.</p><p>When the information package for the World Championship finally came in the mail, he opened the thick manila envelope and spread the papers over his kitchen table. He swallowed in apprehension as he looked at the punishing schedule - they would play for best of twenty-four, almost two months of play in Reykjavik. For the first time in his life, he dreaded a competition. No matter how he imagined it, it was painful: either they would carry on with each other while they played, enjoying the relatively leisurely period of time together, but having to bury their feelings at the chessboard, or they would maintain their distance, which would make playing easier but the longing unbearable. He would be happy to renounce his title, let it pass to her without challenge, to retire without pomp or fuss. Yet he owed it to her to play his best, to honour the promise he made her, to let her play out this arc of her dream.</p><p>Then, after the sixth match: “She did it. She won,” Luchenko said over the line, with much more enthusiasm than anyone should have for the loss of a teammate.</p><p>Vasily let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “She must be relieved.”</p><p>“She is,” Luchenko confirmed. “She asks after you, Vasya. She hasn’t forgotten you.”</p><p>He made a little hum in his throat. “Tell her I will see her soon.”</p><p>“I will. You know, Vasily, the two of you are not Romeo and Juliet. If you want her, you will find a way.”</p><p>Vasily was silent for a moment, shaken by his mentor’s unusual frankness, unsettled by the open acknowledgment of his relationship with Beth. “But how?”</p><p>“The best plays require planning far in advance.”</p><p>“Those plays seldom work out the way one wants.”</p><p>“Indeed. And sometimes for the better.”</p><p>He didn’t respond, reminded of years past and Luchenko’s enigmatic but infuriatingly general chess advice. “Good day, Vasya,” Luchenko told him, and the line went dead.</p><p>In a daze, he drifted to his desk and sat down, the conversation replaying in his mind. He thought of Yulia, of her accusation that he always made decisions for others. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had felt so desperately out of control of his own life that he would do anything to keep others from their mistakes. Beth was his equal, superior even. Not a child. He could give her an opening, even if it was desperate, unlikely, a Hail Mary. Even if it was insane, far fetched, it could be what they needed to see the Championship through, a spark of hope.</p><p>He reached for his stationary and started to pen a letter.</p><p>
  <em>My darling,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was so pleased to follow your excellent progress in the Candidates matches. I had no doubt that you would prevail and become my most worthy challenger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am writing because I have one last desperate play. It is a long play, and many circumstances might intervene to make it impossible. We both know how difficult it is to plan an attack so far in advance…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My son is now twelve years old. In just a few years he will be a young man. Let me fulfill my promise to him, and then, once he is grown, if you want it, let me make a promise to you. If you would still have me then, I will find a way to you. The world is changing. Our nations may yet reconcile. But let this promise not be a chain, only a thread: you must vow to me that you will live well and fully until then, that you will pursue your desires, whatever or whoever those might be. Perhaps you will meet someone else in the meantime, or find some other path that would take you in another direction. I would step aside happily only to see you happy and fulfilled. Knowing you has been one of the greatest joys of my life, and if these few short years - these few short weeks, really, is all that we ever have, then it will be no part of my many regrets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My son’s birthday is the 7th of July. If I have not received a letter from you by the day that he turns eighteen, I will carry on as before and assume that you have found another way. I will await your answer in Reykjavik.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Until then, and ever after, I love you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>V.</em>
</p><p>He addressed it to her postal box and made the short trip down to the corner to post it. He held the letter in his hand, tracing the lines of the off-white paper with his eyes. So curious that such an ordinary, ephemeral object contained something so important. He thought of all the obstacles it had to face, the least of which was the unreliable Soviet postal service, and briefly considered tossing it in the bin next to the postbox. But, it was something. So he posted it and said a silent prayer.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <em>Reykjavik, 1972</em>
</p><p>Reykjavik reminded Vasily strangely of Vancouver, an ocean town dwarfed by mountains. The architecture was its own, though, a smattering of low buildings with colourful roofs. He had not seen Beth yet, and was not likely to before the opening gala that evening. His stomach was in knots. It was not as if they would have the opportunity to speak openly there, both of them guests of honour, all eyes on them, only the most basic of pleasantries to exchange. It had been months since they had seen each other last. Strange how his mind hadn’t worn out the image of her, how his heart still pounded indecorously as he entered the banquet hall.</p><p>She wore a forest green gown, cut simply, complete with a cape. Green was her colour; the contrast with her hair and red lips was devastating. Her locks were longer, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She looked a little thin, a little tired, but comfortable in her surroundings. When they were called for dinner, his place was, for better or for worse, next to hers. He pulled her chair out as she approached.</p><p>“Miss Harmon,” he inclined his head deeply, respectfully.</p><p>“Mr. Borgov,” she returned, her face betraying no feeling, a perfectly opaque mask of pleasantry.</p><p>“How are you feeling about your upcoming matches against Miss Harmon, Mr. Borgov?” A reporter.</p><p>“Fine. We have faced off many times before,” he replied mildly.</p><p>“But the stakes have never been so high,” the reporter prompted.</p><p>“No,” Vasily agreed, “but I cannot think of a worthier opponent.”</p><p>Beth looked at him, really looked at him, and really smiled. Joy swelled in his chest and he had to actively work to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up any higher. It was such a welcome relief to be near her again, like moving from cool shade into the sun. He almost jumped out of skin when he felt a warm hand take his under the table. The warm feeling in his chest exploded fourfold. He let out the breath he was holding and let his body relax, squeezing her hand in return before releasing it. For a moment, he felt like he could do this. They could do it.</p><p>It didn’t stop him from being disappointed when she didn’t come to him that night. Or the next, or the one after that. He fretted, vacillating between relief and hurt, in his worst moments thinking ugly things he knew weren’t true: of course she had finally come to her senses about their doomed union and decided to stop, of course she realized that he was much too old for her and had nothing to offer, of course someone new had turned her head. He replayed the memory of her taking his hand just days ago in his mind, wondering if he had only dreamt it and he had finally gone insane. Those first matches they played over the chess board, he looked at her longer than he should, looking in the vain hope of detecting some sign, a signal that he was still hers, while she stared resolutely at the board instead of looking at him.</p><p>On the fourth night he could bear it no longer. If they were finished, she could at least tell him as much. He waited until his minders were surely asleep and snuck to her room, knocking softly, trying to quiet his breathing so that he could listen for her footsteps. He heard none; surely, she must have known it was him. No one else would come calling at this hour. Just as a feeling of unpleasant finality was starting to descend over him, the door swung open just wide enough for a slender hand to yank him inside with surprising force.</p><p>She didn’t let go of the wrist that she had taken as the door swung shut behind them. He suddenly found that he didn’t know what to say, so he just gazed at her for a long moment. She was in a knee-length satin nightdress trimmed in lace, her hair mussed from sleep. Her feet were bare, silent on the hotel carpet.</p><p>“You came,” she said finally, voice gravelly.</p><p>“Should I have?” he managed, his voice feeling just as raw as hers sounded.</p><p>“I was waiting,” she said plainly, like he was just supposed to have known.</p><p>“You could have come to me,” he told her, frowning.</p><p>“I gave you a signal” she countered.</p><p>“And then you ignored me.”</p><p>She huffed, exasperated. “This is stupid,” she told him.</p><p>“Yes,” he agreed, and then pulled her body into his and kissed her hard. She tensed for a moment and then he felt her relax, her sigh mingling with his groan as their bodies found each other again, the physical relief palpable. His hands roamed over her breasts, nipples hardening under the satin of her slip, while she dragged her long fingernails down his back, pulling him closer. There was no teasing, no foreplay. There would be time for that later. He backed her into the sideboard nearest to the door. She took the cue and hopped up, holding her weight momentarily by her arms so he could help her drag her underwear down her long legs. His exhale came in a long hiss as he felt the wetness already between her legs. She mewled and pressed her hips into his hand, her mouth pressed to his chest.</p><p>He fumbled with the zip on his pants and freed himself, already hard. He paused for a moment to appreciate the sight before him, her tousled locks, eyes heavy with lust, the strap of her slip falling delicately down her shoulder as her full breasts moved in time with the excitement of her breasts. Her knees were spread, one heel hooked over the edge of the tabletop to steady her, her damp centre gleaming in the low lamplight. What had he done to deserve such a creature? Unbidden, melancholy threatened to creep.</p><p>“Vasya,” she said, bringing him back to. “Be here with me,” she entreated. “We have time now.”</p><p>He blinked, refocusing his eyes. “I’m still here,” he told her, as much as he told himself, and pushed himself inside of her. She sighed and wrapped her ankles tightly around his back, drawing him deeper. He fucked her steadily, thankful for the sturdy build of the furniture and the resistance from her hips that kept the credenza from banging noisily against the wall.</p><p>“Vasya,” she breathed. He kept thrusting, feeling the sweat start to form on his brow. “Vasya,” she said again, more insistently, like she was trying to tell him something.</p><p>He opened his eyes but didn’t slow his pace. “Yes?”</p><p>“I love you,” she panted. Then, she said it again, in Russian.</p><p>He faltered, taken aback. It was so absurd to hear from her that he almost laughed. “What?”</p><p>“I love you,” she said, plainly if breathily, still driving her hips forward to meet his.</p><p>He leaned forward to nip at her earlobe. “Perhaps you could tell me when my cock isn’t inside of you,” he growled.</p><p>This time she did giggle. “If you’re lucky.”</p><p>“I-“ he started, moved by her confession, but interrupted by the unexpected creep of his orgasm, his body demanding release. He tried to swallow his groan as he half-pulled out of her, spurts of his ejaculate landing messily on her cunt and in her pubic hair, his balls tightening almost painfully with his relief. He thrust a hand out onto the wall next to her head to steady himself as his body wrung itself out. She stroked the nape of his neck soothingly as his breath evened back out.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he managed, unsure if he was apologizing for the mess he had made or for not helping her come first.</p><p>She shrugged. “Nothing we can’t take care of.”</p><p>He watched in rapture as she brought her fingers to her mouth and wet them, then slipped them into the mess between her legs, sighing as her fingers found her clit. He admired the ease with which she wielded her sexuality, the lack of repressed shyness that had marked his sexual encounters with his wife, and blushed as Beth tasted her fingers again, this time coated in his semen. He reached out to roll a nipple in his fingers, coaxing her along as she resumed touching herself. Her head fell back as she cried “Vasya! I’m going to -“ and squeezed her hand between her legs and twisted away from his ministrations to her nipples, her body shuddering in climax.</p><p>He pressed a soft kiss to her lips as she came down, her eyes fluttering, satiated, sleepy. “Shower?” he asked. “Then bed.”</p><p>She nodded hazily, hopping down from the sideboard and stretching out her limbs.</p><p>They washed the day off under the warm spray, dried off and slipped into bed together, naked. If anyone found them together like this, the fact of their wearing clothes would not make them any less damned.</p><p>“Did you get my letter?” he asked, idly stroking her hair.</p><p>“What letter?” she asked, sleepily.</p><p>He paused for a moment. “Never mind,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t important.”</p><p>It was better this way.</p><p>“Hm,” she said, already most of the way asleep. He pulled her tighter to him and closed his eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Reykjavík / Lexington</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Closing in on the home stretch, here, folks. I reproduced the 1972 championship more or less faithfully, omitting some of Fischer's dramatics, and watched a 30 minute long Agadmator video on YouTube to help me decipher the final match. I know not everyone's in it for the chess fidelity, but I hope my token effort adds the the verisimilitude. </p>
<p>Also, I wanted to challenge myself in this chapter to write little conversations between them, to prove to myself that there was more between them than chess and sexual attraction. Not sure if I succeeded, but it was a good exercise.</p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Beth knew that the World Championship would be gruelling. She just didn’t expect it to be <em>this </em>gruelling. She got off to a rocky start with two losses, pushing in the first game too far past what could have been a draw for her. She stayed up late studying, pouring over their games, old and new, falling asleep more than once draped over a desk with a book in her hand. Her first win didn’t come until the third game, played over two days. She agonized over the move that she sealed as they adjourned, the little puzzle that he had left for her to solve. When she unsealed her move in the morning, Borgov’s face remained inscrutable, but for a twitch in one eye. Then, he immediately resigned. Her move was the right one. A heady mixture of relief and triumph coursed through her.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She begged off early from dinner and let herself out a backdoor of the hotel for a quiet smoke in the alley. A few minutes later, the door swung open, revealing Borgov. He looked surprised to see her.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Oh - I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to follow you,” he told her.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“It’s alright. We’re just having a smoke,” she told him, offering him her lighter.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">They smoked together in companionable silence for a moment. No one else was around. She gazed at him openly, feeling the strange sensation of seeing Vasya - <em>her </em>Vasya, not his stern doppelgänger - outside of their usual setting of generic hotel suites. She liked the way the golden glow of the setting sun made patterns on his shirt, the way the breeze ruffled a few stray hairs that had escaped the stranglehold of his Brylcreem.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You look like death,” he told her, cigarette bobbing in his mouth.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She snorted. “And here I was thinking nice things about you.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">He ignored her, never one for the self-indulgence of a compliment. “Come to mine tonight. Let’s turn in early.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She nodded, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that must have been written on her face.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">He stamped out his cigarette. “Come,” he told her, extending his hand, somewhat uncharacteristically. She took it, and though he released it before they stepped inside, the smile on her face remained.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Back in his suite, he took off his suit jacket and then set to undressing her, his touches efficient, not sexual. She felt herself relax under his warm hands. He peeled off her slacks and socks and set to massaging her feet. She was almost embarrassed by the moan that slipped out of her mouth as he worked.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Good?” he asked, smiling.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Please never stop.” She let herself fall back against the pillows, eyes closed, mouth slightly open as he continued to rub the tension out of her body.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">They had adopted an unspoken rule early on that they would not speak about chess when they were together, at least, not about their own games, and they did not spend the nights together where unfinished games were adjourned. Beyond the gruelling schedule, the hours of play, it cost her extra energy to bifurcate herself in this way, to split herself down the middle and try and hold the pieces apart: Beth, Vasily’s lover, strangely at peace with their lot, settled into a routine that might even be described as domestic, and Grandmaster Harmon, Grandmaster Borgov’s opponent, opaque, ruthless, who barely looked at or spoke to him in public. She was sure there was an impending crash coming once all of this had been resolved, but she had neither the time nor the energy to think about what that would look like.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">They took turns sneaking to each others’ rooms late at night and back early in the morning. Sometimes they would have a late dinner together, or read together, or just fall into exhausted sleep wrapped up in each other. Beth delighted in discovering all of the ways that Vasya was in fact human. He spent altogether too much time in the morning combing his hair <em>just</em> so. He couldn’t tolerate eating anything spicy without turning beet red and sweating profusely. She could usually get him to stop whatever he was doing and go limp in her arms with the merest suggestion of her fingernails over his scalp. His almost compulsive need for tidiness clashed constantly with her flurry of messiness and chaos. And despite his public persona, he was deeply emotional, had his moods - tender, contented, often, in the quiet moments in between, tending towards melancholy other times. She learned to navigate them, knowing that he didn’t want to talk when he was brooding, but that she could comfort him just by curling up close. He was attentive to her, but not in a slavish way, redirecting her if he was busy with a promise that they would spend time together later.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She spent time with the Russian delegation (despite the admonishment of her handlers) now long accepted into the fold, betting cigarettes over speed chess matches and laughing along with them as she solidified her personal catalogue of Russian curse words. She found satisfaction in the little chess community that she was now a part of - not just because of her stature, but because of her familiarity with the group. She greeted old acquaintances and asked other players about their wives and children. Finally, she found herself in a place where she belonged, where she liked the person that she was.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She especially liked the person that she was, enfolded in Vasily’s arms at night: a person worthy of love, who could love in return.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Tell me about Maxim.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Well… Maxim is twelve. I am afraid it is the last year he will be a little boy. He is a good student, but better with words than with numbers.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Did he ever want a sibling?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Of course, I think he would have liked a playmate. But I travelled so often, it didn’t seem fair to leave Yulia home alone with a gaggle of children. Besides, he had lots of cousins to play with.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Is it hard on him with you gone so often?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I think so, though he doesn’t say so. It has been this way since he was born. I always brought him something from wherever we travelled, brought him along when we could. He is more fortunate than most children his age, I suppose, not twelve and he has already seen half the world.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“It changes your perspective, being able to travel.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Yes, for the better, I think.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Hm… I read an article in <em>Time </em>magazine about the dead sea. It’s so salty and calm you can float effortlessly and read a newspaper.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I think I’ve seen that photograph. The calm would be nice.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I would like to travel with you.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Have you read Solzhenitsyn? He must be banned.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“He is banned. I have tried, but I found the content… too familiar.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Ah, that makes sense. Well, other Russian writers do you like that I might know? I tried to read Dosdoyevsky in the original to practice, but it was too difficult.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You’ll get there soon. Your Russian is getting better all the time. My English on the other hand…”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Is much better than you let on.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Yes, well, to answer your question, yes I have, and you’re not missing much. I’ll never understand why all the Russian novels that make it to the West concern either our oppression or the very darkest parts of the human psyche.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Maybe Americans are just bored with their lives and like rubbernecking at car crashes. Surely, there must be at least one you like.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Well, I thought <em>Lolita</em> was a masterpiece, despite popular opinion.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You don’t find the content… too close to home?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">A smile. “Be careful where you tread, my love.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Or what? You’ll put me over your knee?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I ought to.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“What will you do now?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">A shrug. “Teach, probably, tutor on the side. It is what all the retired grandmasters do.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“But what would you do, if you could do anything?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I haven’t thought about it.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Think about it now.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I don’t know. I have always been good with numbers, I suppose. Perhaps I would have been an engineer.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Perhaps you <em>could be </em>an engineer.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Perhaps. And you, what will you do when you become World Champion at the ripe old age of 22?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I asked Georgi the same question, years ago.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“And what did he say?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“He didn’t understand the question.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Do <em>you </em>understand the question?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Now I do, yes. I didn’t before. I suppose I’ll play until I don’t enjoy it anymore. Then, I don’t know. Like you, I haven’t thought about what else.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Think about it now.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I suppose it would be nice to learn to play the piano, like Alma.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You have the hands for it.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“How do you know?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I spend a lot of time looking at your hands.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You know, if you only hung your clothes up after wearing them, you would save a small fortune on dry cleaning.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“But I wouldn’t wear an outfit twice in one trip, so what’s the point?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“The point is - never mind.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“That’s right, mind your own business. You practically sleep in your suits, like a vampire.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You know that I don’t.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Only because you let me take them off.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I have always preferred sleeping in the nude.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2"><span class="Apple-converted-space">"</span>Mr. Borgov, how scandalous!”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">A shrug. “Suits are so restrictive. One wants to be comfortable.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“And then there’s Townes. He is one of my closest friends. One of the first people I told about us. He still does some reporting on chess, but now he works for the Lexington Herald and is doing some more serious work.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I thought there might have been some romance between you at one point.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“So did I. I had a hopeless, schoolgirl crush. But Townes is of a… different persuasion.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Ah, I see. And what about your Mr. Watts?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Oh, are we cataloguing past lovers now?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Your closest friends, rather.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I’ll have you know you fuck me much better than Benny ever did.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I did <em>not</em> ask.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“But now you know.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Now I know.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Beth didn’t lose another game until their eleventh match. She flipped back and forth between wins and draws, putting her at six and a half points to Borgov’s four and a half. It was not a bad margin, but it was still uncomfortable. She widened it with a win in game thirteen. Borgov seemed frustrated by his lag in points, his face extra severe and jaw clenched as he played. She had no doubt that he was playing his best, and she was grateful that he seemed to be digging deep for the remnants of whatever love he had once had for the game.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Then, a draw. And another, and another, and another. Beth kept her three point lead into the double-digits. Once she tipped past twelve points, it would be over. Quiet sadness built in her the closer they inched to the end. She was so busy studying that she didn’t allow herself time to think of their impending parting. But now it intruded on her thoughts at odd times, catching her in what should have been moments of levity with her friends, while she dressed in the morning, while she and Vasily read together in quiet companionship. She tried not to show it to him, since he often seemed preoccupied with his own melancholy.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You’re going to win, you know,” he told her the evening before what would prove be their last match, skin still flushed from the desperation of their lovemaking.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Don’t say that,” she told him, crossly.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“It’s true,” he pressed. “I have been playing my best, but you are better. I am sorry if I’ve ever given you reason to doubt that.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Don’t be. I’m living my dream: to challenge the great Vasily Borgov for the title of Chess World Champion.” The words came out more bitterly than she intended.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“And is that still your dream?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She considered that quietly for a moment. Then she reached out and took his hand. “It’s funny how dreams change as we get older.”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Isn’t it?”</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Game twenty-one. She had eleven and a half points to his eight and a half. They had, astoundingly, drawn the last seven games in a row. If she lost, or drew again, there would certainly be another game. If she won, the title was hers. It struck her how this championship mirrored their relationship. The same setting, the same dance, over and over, each time a new combination of steps, their meetings punctuated by time in between. Only here, one of them would lose. Or maybe they would both win, or both lose. She wasn’t sure she knew what winning or losing meant anymore; what between them was life, and what was chess.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She was playing black, opening with a line of the Sicilian that she had never tried before. Her advantage in points was making her bold, clearly further surprising Borgov with 8. exd5. She watched curiously as a sheen developed on his face, as he loosened his tie nervously, notably flustered, so unlike him. The tournament hall was so quiet Beth could hear the soft scrape of felt bottom of the chess pieces over the lacquered board.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">The game ticked on. Almost forty moves in, they were still equal in points: her rook and two pawns to his bishop and four pawns. She had her rook trained on both of his queenside pawns, which would not be able to protect each other any longer if they moved out of formation. On the kingside, her own pawn in the h-file was threatening to break through. Still, he had a solid defensive position, and her path to victory wasn’t clear. His bishop danced around trying to continue protecting his pieces, offering her paltry pawn sacrifices to distract her, which she repeatedly denied. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted around the board. Zugzwang? There was no move that Borgov could make that would not deteriorate his position.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">In her haste, she pushed her kingside pawn, ever aggressive. She realized her mistake a moment later, noticing that he could move his king into her pawn’s line, diffusing her attack. <em>Stupid, stupid</em>, she admonished herself. She would never learn. But he didn’t do what she expected. He pulled his bishop back, equally preoccupied with his own pawns on the opposite side of the board. She did the math in her head. And then again, and then again, just to make sure. She looked up and knew that he saw it too. The fourth time she played through the sequence on the ceiling, tears started streaming down her face. She didn’t know why she was crying. In her daydreams she always won more decisively, commanding her opponent around the board until they begged for her mercy. Here, her victory was on a knife’s edge. Borgov could play on for a draw, but given the points, a draw was as good as loss.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2">Maybe all of their games, on the chess board and off, would end in a draw, both of them battered and bloody.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She slowly raised her eyes to his, saw the sad smile on his face. Instead of the king, he picked up his white queen and offered it to her. “Take your crown,” he said quietly. She reached out and took his hand, and stood with him, until her legs gave out underneath her and she slid to her knees, still crying. He wrapped his arms around her and knelt with her to the din of applause that had exploded in the room. She could feel that there was something else metallic between their hands, and let it slide with the piece into the pocket of her apron dress.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You did it,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you more than you’ll ever know, my Elizabeth.” His words only made her cry harder, and if their embrace looked intimate, well, now it didn’t matter.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Then, all too soon, suddenly she was on her feet again, dabbing her face with someone’s handkerchief, shaking hands, posing for pictures. She felt accomplished, of course, the kind of joy tinged with grief of a moment that could never come again. A time in her life that would never be again. Nostalgia before the moment had even passed.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">She caught sight of Vasya one last time as he left the hall with his handlers. He turned back and smiled at her, and she only realized later that she had touched her hand to her heart in reply.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“I meant what I said, you know.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“What did you say?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“You know what.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“Ah, that.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“Yes, well, I meant it. Not just because we were -”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“I know you did.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“I’ve never said that to anyone, you know.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“I love you too, my darling.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2">-</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Back in Lexington, Beth fumbled with the keys to her house, so exhausted that she was having trouble turning the key in the lock.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“Here, let me,” Townes said, and she mercifully handed them over to him. He let them in, hauling Beth’s bags over the front step, and then stepping back out and yanking the hefty wad of mostly junk mail stuffed unceremoniously into her mailbox so tightly a single sheet of paper more would scarcely fit.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“I’m going straight to bed. Thanks for lift, Dave.” She was already halfway up the stairs.</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">“You owe me a beer. And drink a glass of water before you go to sleep, Harmon,” he called up the stairs after her. He flicked through the pile of mail in his hand, picking out four or five envelopes that looked like bills or other important correspondence. One of them in particular stood out: it was smaller, like a greeting card or a postcard, in heavy, expensive-looking envelope. Or, it would have looked expensive, if it didn’t look as if it had been through hell, dirt smeared on it like someone had stepped on it, dings in the corners, and the seal coming unstuck. He barely had to peek to see a hint of cyrillic script inside and know who it was from, and that it was probably important. He tiptoed up the stairs to Beth’s room. She was already fast asleep, still in her clothes on top of the covers, shoes kicked off haphazardly. He put the letter on her nightstand, smoothed her hair out of her face, and let himself out.</p>
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